Claims  and 
Counterclaims, 


'By  Jstaud 
'WilderGoodwin 


9ftC 


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CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 


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Claims  and  Counterclaims 


BY 

MAUD   WILDER   GOODWIN 

Author  of  '^  Four  Roads  to  Paradise,"  etc. 


New  York 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

1 90s 


^" 


Copyright,  1905,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  August,  1905 

jIU  rigbti  rtstrvtd, 

tmeUdInt  'hat  of  translation  into  foreign  Unguagu. 

intluding  tht  Scandinavian. 


CONTENTS 


I. 

Claims 

3 

II. 

An  Embarrassment  of  Riches    . 

.      17 

III. 

That  Not  Impossible  She  . 

.      38 

IV. 

A  Debtor  to  His  Profession 

.      55 

V. 

The  Point  of  View 

.      79 

VI. 

Pieria  Once  More 

,     100 

VII. 

Fresh  Woods  and  Pastures  New 

119 

VIII. 

The  Holder  of  the  Claim    . 

142 

IX. 

The  Pasteboard  Helmet     . 

163 

X. 

.     179 

XL 

Strangers  and  Friends 

.     195 

XII. 

Homeward  Bound 

,    204 

XIII. 

A  Game  of  Chess        .        .        .        . 

225 

XIV. 

Men  and  Women 

.     249 

XV. 

Counterclaims 

269 

XVI. 

Dilke  Meets  an  Old  Acquaintance     . 

285 

XVII. 

A  Divided  Duty- 

3" 

XVIII. 

Port  After  Stormy  Seas    . 

.     324 

XIX. 

After  AU 

>     345 

2228356 


LIST  OF  CHARACTERS 

Joyce  Eldridge,  daughter  of  a  New  York  banker. 
Mrs.  Fenwick,  her  aunt. 
Mme.  du  Pont,  her  cousin. 
Mr.  Eldridge,  her  father. 
Anthony  Dilke,  a  young  physician. 
Brackett  Newbold,  an  artist. 
Eustace   Brandyce,    correspondent  of  a  London 
paper. 

Jacob  Secor,  founder  of  the  Secor  Library. 

MINOR  CHARACTERS 

Henry  Eldridge,  brother  of  Joyce. 

Mrs.  Dilke,  mother  of  Anthony  Dilke. 

Rev.  James  Macassar. 

Mr.  John  Cantor. 

Mr.  Thomas  Towns. 

Mrs.  Towns. 

Mrs.  Cantor. 


CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 


CHAPTER   I 

Claims 

WHAT  is  your  idea  of  gratitude,  New- 
bold?" 
"Gratitude,    my    dear  Dilke,   is  a 
sentiment  reluctantly  entertained  for  a  benefit 
grudgingly   conferred." 

"  I  am  not  likely  to  get  much  help  from  you  in 
your  present  mood ;  but  I  shall  ask  you  one  more 
question:  If  a  man  had  saved  your  life  at  the 
risk  of  his  own,  what  would  you  feel  that  you 
owed  him?" 

"My  life,  evidently." 

"  I  happen  to  be  in  earnest,  Newbold." 

"Really!  That  is  a  pity.  But  does  it  follow 
that  because  you  are  in  earnest  I  must  be?" 

"  It  would  be  more  civil  to  answer  a  serious 
question  seriously." 

Newbold  threw  back  his  head,  and  thrust  out 
his  chin  till  his  pointed  Van  Dyck  beard  was 
almost  horizontal.  He  switched  at  a  head  of 
goldenrod  with  his  cane  for  an  instant  before  he 
replied : 

"  Let  us  be  serious,  then,  by  all  means." 

3 


4  CLAIMS   AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Thank  you." 

"  Not  at  all.  It  is  an  affair  of  necessity.  Two 
are  needed  for  the  making  of  a  jest,  but  one  can 
inflict  seriousness.  May  I  trouble  you  to  repeat 
your  serious  question  in  simple  words  adapted  to 
a  light  and  trifling  mind?" 

"  I  could  not  make  it  simpler,"  Dilke  answered 
with  some  irritation.  "What  I  say  is  this:  Is 
a  man,  whose  life  has  been  saved  by  another, 
never  to  be  free  from  a  sense  of  obligation? " 

Newbold  put  a  question  in  his  turn:  "  Is  this 
a  problem  in  casuistry  or  does  it  refer  to  some 
event  which  actually  happened?" 

"  It  actually  happened.  It  is  my  own  case," 
blurted  out  Dilke,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his 
pockets,  and  restlessly  changing  his  position 
from  the  turf  where  he  had  been  sitting  to  a  rock 
opposite  Newbold. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  his  friend,  "that  interests 
me  directly,  centres  my  attention  where  it 
belongs.  I  confess  that  as  you  first  put  it  my 
thoughts  wandered  off  to  the  fellow  who  saved 
the  life.  I  was  wondering  if  he  would  feel  a  sense 
of  responsibility  for  reinflicting  a  man  upon  a 
world  possibly  better  off  without  him.  But  of 
course  if  the  case  was  yours " 

"It  is  mine,"  Dilke  reiterated  doggedly. 
"That  is  why  I  do  not  care  to  jest  about 
it." 


CLAIMS  5 

"  I  see.  Nothing  is  more  difficult  than  taking 
our  own  affairs  jovially." 

"Apparently,"  Dilke  rejoined,  "it  is  more 
difficult  to  take  our  friends'  affairs  in  any  other 
way.  It  is  astonishing  to  me  that  you  should 
have  so  much  comprehension  and  so  little  sym- 
pathy." 

Newbold  received  his  companion's  remark  with 
equanimity. 

"Go  on,"  he  said;  "that  is,  if  you  mean 
to  tell  me  about  it.  A  man  saved  your 
life ?" 

"Yes." 

"When  and  where?" 

"Some  months  ago,  when  I  was  camping  in 
the  Rockies  with  two  other  men.  One  of  them 
was  Brandyce — Eustace  Brandyce — did  you 
ever  hear  of  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  knew  him  rather  well  in  Paris — a  very 
agreeable  companion — But —  "  Newbold  raised 
his  eyebrows  as  he  spoke. 

"So  you  have  felt  it,  too!"  exclaimed  Dilke 
with  a  certain  tragic  intensity.  "  Then  you  will 
understand  my  state  of  mind,  and  I  can  explain 
it  without  a  sense  of  disloyalty.  Brandyce  was, 
as  you  say,  a  charming  companion ;  but  in  camp- 
ing one  learns  to  know  a  man  so  well,  and 
intimacy  is  a  dangerous  experiment.  Of  course 
the  favilt  may  lie  only  in  the  combination  of 


6  CLAIMS   AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

temperaments.  Matches  are  good,  and  gun- 
powder has  its  uses,  but  propinquity  brings  out 
the  worst  quaHties  of  both." 

"Tell  me  the  story  first  and  leave  your 
reflections  till  the  end,"  Newbold  urged. 

"We  had  been  camping  for  a  fortnight," 
Dilke  continued,  "  and  I  had  been  trying  in  vain 
to  induce  those  men  to  get  up  in  time  to  see  the 
sunrise  from  the  top  of  the  mountain.  They  said 
that  no  sight  on  earth  was  worth  the  loss  of  a 
morning's  sleep.  I  suggested  that  they  make  up 
their  .sleep  at  the  other  end  of  the  night;  but 
Brandyce  asked  why  he  should  go  to  bed  before 
he  was  ready,  in  order  to  rise  before  he  wished." 

Newbold  turned  aside  that  he  might  smile 
unobserved. 

"So  you  went  alone?"  he  queried. 

"I  went  alone,  and  was  well  repaid  for  my 
trouble.  The  sun  stood  a  red  ball  of  fire  on  the 
horizon,  and  a  row  of  black-pointed  firs  stretched 
like  a  stockade  along  the  range  of  the  mountain 
spur.  I  wish  that  you  could  have  painted  it, 
Newbold." 

The  artist  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "I  have 
no  taste  for  panoramic  chromos  of  sunrise,"  he 
said;  "I  should  as  soon  undertake  to  paint  a 
rainbow,  that  section  of  aerial  watermelon; 
but  go  on.  Was  it  on  the  mountain  top  that 
you  came  to  grief?" 


CLAIMS  7 

"It  was  on  the  way  down,"  said  Dilke,  with 
some  trace  of  lingering  resentment  in  his  tone. 
"I  slipped  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff  and  fell  thirty 
feet.  It  might  have  been  three  hundred  but  for 
a  tree  which  caught  me  as  I  fell." 

"Otherwise  I  fancy  you  would  not  be  talking 
here  to-day."' 

"Assuredly  not.  The  fall  nearly  killed  me  as 
it  was,  and  I  hung  unconscious  in  the  branches. 
It  was  there  that  B randy ce  found  me,  and  with 
his  usual  cleverness — whatever  you  think  of 
Brandy  ce  you  cannot  deny  his  cleverness " 

"  I  never  attempted  to  deny  his  cleverness. 
Don't  drag  me  in." 

Dilke  declined  to  notice  the  interpolation. 
With  the  prodigality  of  detail  which  we  are  all 
prone  to  bestow  on  accounts  of  our  own  experi- 
ences, he  went  on:  "  Brandy  ce  had  brought  a 
rope.  He  had  always  said  that  a  lariat  was  of 
use  in  any  situation,  from  a  roundup  to  a  lynch- 
ing. When  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  cliff  he 
leaned  over,  and,  seeing  me  caught  there  in  the 
boughs,  he  determined  at  once  to  take  all  risks 
to  rescue  me.  Think  of  that,  with  a  cliff  falling 
sheer  three  hundred  feet  beneath!  A  brave 
man  might  have  been  excused  for  flinching. 
But  Brandyce  never  hesitated.  He  tied  one 
end  of  his  rope  around  a  sturdy  tree,  and  then, 
dropping  over  the  cliff,  went  down  hand  over 


8  CLAIMS   AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

hand  to  the  branches  where  I  lay.  He  knew 
that  if  I  became  conscious  and  made  the  slightest 
motion  I  should  fall  the  whole  distance,  so  he 
tied  the  rope  round  my  body  and  then  climbed 
the  cliff  to  call  for  aid.  He  imperilled  his  own 
life  at  every  step." 

"And  you  were  ungrateful  enough  not  to  like 
Brandy ce  after  that?" 

"  I  was.  I  put  in  no  plea,  no  disclaimer,  no 
excuse.  But  I  assure  you  that,  as  I  lay  in  my 
tent  on  the  night  after  the  accident,  with  a 
broken  arm,  a  bruised  body  and  a  bruised  mind, 
my  thoughts  were  not  to  be  envied." 

"I  know  all  about  that,"  answered  Newbold 
with  more  sympathy  than  he  had  yet  shown. 
"It  is  an  unequal  fight  when  a  man  struggles 
with  his  thoughts.  There  are  so  many  of  them 
and  only  one  of  him,  and  when  he  lies  down 
they  have  him  at  a  double  disadvantage.  Then 
they  perch  on  his  chest  and  whisper  in  his  ear 
and  dance  a  can-can  in  his  brain." 

"Precisely.  Turn  and  twist  as  I  would,  I 
could  not  escape  recognition  of  the  fact  that  I 
owed  the  greatest  obligation  which  it  was  pos- 
sible to  incur  to  a  man  whom  I  neither  wholly 
liked  nor  entirely  trusted.  The  thing  which  I 
resented  in  my  inmost  soul  was  being  compelled 
to  stand  by  consequences  not  of  my  own  making. 
A  benefaction  had  been  thrust  upon  me.     I  had 


CLAIMS  9 

neither  the  grace  to  accept  the  gift  gaily,  nor 
the  dishonesty  to  refuse  to  acknowledge  it.  The 
most  depressing  experience  in  life  is  the  sense  of 
inability  to  summon  an  emotion  demanded  by 
the  situation." 

Dilke  paused  for  an  instant,  and  then  went  on : 
"Life  surely  is  not  such  a  precious  boon  that  a 
man  must  be  glad  to  accept  it  from  uncongenial 
hands.  I  owe  my  life  to  Brandyce,  and  the 
debt  is  one  which  can  be  paid  only  on  the  instal- 
ment plan.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  I  have 
sworn  to  him  that  if  I  could  ever  render  him  any 
service  I  would  do  it  if  it  cost  my  heart's  blood, 
but  such  opportunities  do  not  offer  in  our  shel- 
tered commonplace  world.  If  I  could  save  his 
life  at  the  expense  of  my  own  and  be  quits,  I 
should  be  only  too  glad;  but  to  go  about  forever 
with  this  load  of  gratitude  hung  like  a  millstone 
around  my  neck,  disliking  my  benefactor  and 
cursing  myself  for  not  being  able  to  like  him — 
you  will  admit  that  it  is  a  hard  case." 

Dilke  paused  and  sat  looking  with  bent  brows 
at  the  weatherbeaten  grasses  around  him.  The 
autumn  air  stirred  them  gently,  the  clouds 
floated  calmly  in  the  sky  above,  crickets  chirped 
at  his  feet.  Newbold  waited  for  some  time, 
hoping  that  the  quietness  of  nature  would 
communicate  itself  to  his  friend's  feverish 
mood;   but  he   soon   saw   that  it  was  having 


10  CLAIMS  AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

no  effect,  and  he  determined  to  try  vigorous 
measures. 

"Dilke,"  he  said  dehberately,  "You  are  a 
good  fellow  with  a  real  gift  for  friendship;  but 
you  have  a  streak  of  surly  obstinacy  in  you 
and  you  are  too  omniscient  by  half.  For  the 
omniscience  I  do  not  hold  you  to  blame.  It  is 
practically  thrust  upon  you  by  your  profession. 
If  you  once  admitted  that  you  did  not  know 
very  much,  that  your  practice  was  largely  a 
matter  of  guesswork  and  your  cures  largely  a 
matter  of  luck,  away  would  go  your  patients  to 
the  quack  in  the  next  street.  People  demand 
omniscience  in  their  physician,  and  of  course 
you  could  not  afford  to  offer  less;  but  the  surli- 
ness is  another  matter.  You  really  ought  to 
take  that  in  hand." 

"  Have  I  no  other  amiable  weaknesses  with 
which  you  can  taunt  me  ? " 

"Yes,  now  you  speak  of  it,  I  should  add  a 
morbid  sensitiveness  and  a  pride  which  makes 
an  obligation  cut  like  a  whiplash.  For  in- 
stance, in  this  very  case  in  point,  I  dare  say  you 
liked  Brandyce  well  enough  until  he  saved 
your  life." 

Dilke  flipped  a  pebble  between  his  thumb 
and  forefinger  and  watched  it  as  it  jumped 
along  down  the  hill.  "  I  did  not  dislike  him," 
he  answered,  "but  I  distrusted  him." 


CLAIMS  11 

"What  made  you  suspicious?  Perhaps  we 
are  both  too  ready  to  beheve  evil  of  Brandy ce. 
Remember,  old  Fuller  used  to  say  that  the 
man  who  proceeds  on  half  evidence  will  not  do 
quarter  justice." 

"Suspicion,"  Dilke  answered,  setting  his  lips 
obstinately,  "is  an  instinct,  and  I  have  never 
neglected  its  warnings  without  regretting  it 
afterward." 

Newbold  saw  that  Dilke  was  growing  more  and 
more  bitter  as  he  talked.  Thinking  to  add  a 
consoling  word,  he  said:  "Why  do  you  not 
dismiss  the  whole  thing  from  your  mind?  You 
may  never  see  Brandyce  again.  He  is  scarcely 
likely  to  appear  in  Pieria." 

Dilke  turned  and  looked  full  at  Newbold. 
"You  may  call  it  superstition  if  you  like,"  he 
answered,  "  but  I  have  a  feeling  that  something 
will  happen  to  bring  Brandyce  and  me  together 
and  to  make  me  regret  that  we  ever  met." 

The  two  men  sat  looking  down  at  the  little 
town  of  Pieria  which  lay  in  the  bowl  of  the  valley 
below  them.  It  was  not  a  beautiful  town 
except  to  eyes  which  could  find  pleasure  in  out- 
ward evidences  of  progress  and  prosperity.  Here 
and  there  a  white  spire  or  stone-capped  tower 
rose  above  the  flatness  of  the  low-roofed  houses. 
On  the  bank  of  the  river  which  flowed  through 
the  town  towered  huge   brick  chimneys,  their 


12  CLAIMS   AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

tops  blackened  by  the  smoke  which  poured  out 
of  their  dragon  throats  in  eddying  columns, 
by  day  and  by  night.  Scattered  in  among  them, 
square-shouldered  mills,  unabashed  by  their 
ugliness,  thrust  themselves  insistently  upon  the 
eye  with  a  certain  grim  pride,  as  if  sturdily 
conscious  of  the  fact  that  spire  and  tower  and 
rooftree  were  all  dependent  upon  them  for  sup- 
port, and  that  education  and  religion  must  in 
the  end  come  a-begging,  cap  in  hand,  to  in- 
dustry and  commerce. 

Dilke  was  so  familiar  with  the  scene  that  it  made 
little  impression  upon  him;  but  to  Newbold  its 
ugliness  was  ever  new,  consciously  annoying  and 
constantly  suggestive  of  a  generation  which  had 
sacrificed  grace  to  power,  and  had  sold  its  birth- 
right of  beauty  for  a  mess  of  manufacture. 

Newbold  and  Dilke  had  been  friends  in  col- 
lege, where  they  acquired  in  common  a  taste 
for  tobacco  and  a  lenient  attitude  toward  learn- 
ing; but  afterward  their  paths  diverged.  New- 
bold  went  to  Paris  to  study  painting  and  Dilke 
betook  himself  to  the  medical  schools.  Their 
first  meeting  had  come  recently,  when  Newbold 
received  a  commission  to  paint  a  portrait  of  the 
Reverend  James  Macassar,  a  leading  clergy- 
man of  Pieria,  and'  formerly  president  of  a 
theological  seminary,  which  desired  to  preserve 
a  copy  of  his  features  to  decorate  its  walls. 


CLAIMS  13 

Dilke  had  settled  in  Pieria  to  practise  medicine. 
So  it  came  to  pass  that  the  two  men  had  met  on  that 
curious  basis  of  mingled  intimacy  and  strange- 
ness which  comes  of  interrupted  friendship. 

Newbold  wondered  that  the  years  had  not 
changed  Dilke  more,  and  in  greater  degree  sub- 
dued his  youthful  strenuousness.  He  did  not  en- 
joy playing  anvil  to  this  young  Siegfried's  sword. 

Dilke's  nature  was  one  which  saw  life  neither 
steadily  nor  whole,  but  in  the  distorted  focus 
of  large  enthusiasms  and  unreasoning  depres- 
sions, a  nature  prone  to  rush,  on  small  provo- 
cation, into  useless  sacrifices,  and  to  do  many 
foolish  things  from  headlong  impulse. 

Newbold,  weary  of  watching  the  smoking 
chimneys  of  the  town,  turned  his  gaze  down- 
ward on  the  brook  which  ran  its  madcap  race 
through  the  gully  at  his  feet.  A  three  days' 
rain,  had  brimmed  it  to  the  edge  of  its  channel 
and  sent  the  foam  flying  in  a  delicate  coquetry 
of  spray  over  the  ferns  that  fringed  the  banks. 
At  length  he  leaned  back  and  betook  himself 
to  humming  softly: 

"Too  much  care  will  turn  a  young  man  gray, 
Too  much  care  will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dance  and  I  will  sing, 
So  merrily  pass  the  day, 
For  I  count  it  one  of  the  wisest  things 
To  drive  dull  care  away." 


14  CLAIMS   AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Dilke  looked  at  the  singer.  "Clever  scheme 
that  of  yours,  to  drive  care  away  by  singing  to 
it,"  he  said.  Then  he  laughed.  People  generally 
did  laugh  when  they  looked  at  Newbold.  His 
cheerfulness  was  so  out  of  proportion  to  his 
circumstances  that  that  fact  alone  created  an 
atmosphere  of  exhilarating  incongruity. 

"Yes,"  he  answered  to  Dilke's  comment, 
"  singing  is  at  least  better  than  talking,  since  it 
is  generally  cheerful  and  it  saves  the  hearer  the 
trouble  of  a  reply,  or  even  of  listening  if  he  is 
not  in  the  mood." 

"No  one  ever  need  listen,"  Dilke  replied,  and 
added  qualifyingly,  "unless  he  is  a  married 
man." 

Newbold  laughed.  "  It  is  certainly  one  of  the 
alleviations  of  bachelorhood,"  he  said,  "that  a 
man  is  not  obliged  to  listen  when  he  is  not  in  the 
mood." 

"  One  of  the  alleviations! "  echoed  Dilke.  "  Say 
rather  one  of  the  innumerable  privileges  of  that 
exalted  condition." 

"Yes,"  assented  Newbold,  striving  to  con- 
vince himself,  "  a  bachelor  is  a  man  who  would 
rather  be  lonely  than  bored." 

Dilke  drew  out  his  pipe,  filled  and  lighted  it, 
and  then  threw  away  the  match,  as  he  added: 

"A  bachelor  is  a  man  clever  enough  to  learn 
from  the  experience  of  his  friends." 


CLAIMS  15 

"What  a  bluff  we  are  both  putting  up!" 
Newbold  exclaimed.  "We  know  well  enough 
that  a  bachelor  is  a  man  who  spends  half  the 
night  in  trying  to  figure  out  how  an  income 
which  has  proved  too  small  for  one  may  be 
made  adequate  for  two.  About  midnight  he 
gives  up  the  problem  and  goes  to  the  club." 

"  I,  for  one,  do  no  such  figuring,"  Dilke  main- 
tained stoutly.  "  I  have  never  seen  a  woman 
whom  I  wished  to  marry." 

"  Ah,  you  have  not  the  artistic  temperament. 
When  beauty  appeals  to  every  instinct  you  must 
wish  to  make  it  your  own.  The  trouble  is  that 
other  beauties  appeal  also,  and  fickleness  results. 
Fickleness  is  a  tribute  to  the  universal  at  the 
expense  of  the  individual.  But  if  you  are  not 
in  love  and  anxious  to  earn  enough  money  to 
enable  you  to  marry,  may  I  ask  why  have  you 
planted  yourself  in  this  little  hole  ?  The  crude- 
ness,  the  monotony,  the  unloveliness " 

"  I  can  readily  understand,"  Dilke  interrupted, 
"how  Pieria  would  strike  an  artist;  but  for  a 
physician  it  is  different.  Broken  bones  and 
fevers  are  the  same  the  world  over." 

"It  is  quite  true,"  Newbold  assented,  "that 
interest  in  your  work  may  reconcile  you  to 
lack  of  beauty.  When  I  am  painting  a  portrait 
I  never  ask  myself  whether  the  face  is  beautiful; 
I  am  studying  the  features,  the  colouring,  the 


16  CLAIMS   AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

essential  qualities  which  make  the  personality. 
I  fancy  it  is  the  same  with  the  place  which  you 
call  your  home.  You  are  at  work.  You  are 
absorbed.  You  are  oblivious  of  its  short- 
comings." 

The  men  rose  and  strolled  slowly  homeward. 
There  was  little  speech  between  them,  each 
man  being  occupied  with  his  own  reflections. 

Dilke's  thoughts  turned  obstinately  backward 
to  the  old  corroding  theme. 

"  I  wish  that  it  had  been  Newbold  to  whom 
I  owed  my  life,"  he  murmured  under  his  breath, 
"  I  trust  Newbold— but  Brandyce ?" 


CHAPTER  II 

An  Embarrassment  of  Riches 

The  art  of  portrait  painting  lies  in  gratifying 
the  subject,  without  incurring  the  scorn  of  the 
critics ;  so  that  when  they  say,  "  How  striking  the 
resemblance  is!"  the  original  will  not  frown, 
and  when  he  says  it  they  will  not  smile. 

Fortunately,  perhaps,  for  Newbold,  there  were 
no  critics  in  Pieria,  and  Doctor  Macassar  pro- 
fessed himself  well  satisfied  with  his  "counter- 
feit presentment,"  though  he  suggested  that 
the  hand  thrust  into  the  front  of  the  coat  was 
a  little  larger  than  life,  and  the  expression  of 
the  face  somewhat  less  spiritual  than  his 
parishioners  had  expected. 

Newbold's  only  regret  in  finishing  the  por- 
trait was  that  it  gave  him  no  excuse  for  tarrying 
longer  with  Anthony  Dilke.  The  two  men 
parted  better  friends  for  their  weeks  together, 
and  promised  each  other  that  the  time  should 
not  be  long  before  they  met  again. 

A  few  weeks  after  Newbold  had  taken  his  leave 
Dilke  found  himself  involved  in  a  situation 
which  was  destined  to  affect  his  whole  future 

17 


18         CLAIMS   AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

career,  though  at  first  it  seemed  to  have  only 
a  surface  relation  to  him. 

The  trustees  of  the  free  library  of  Pieria 
gathered  in  the  directors'  room  to  discuss  a 
financial  crisis  in  the  affairs  of  that  institution. 
The  building  was  not  yet  completed,  though 
its  tower  of  stone  rose  ambitiously  in  the  air. 
It  had  been  begun  in  a  time  of  prosperity  and 
encumbered  with  a  mortgage.  Now  the  day 
of  reckoning  was  at  hand.  Hard  times  had  fol- 
lowed on  the  heels  of  plenty.  Subscriptions  had 
failed.  There  was  not  enough  money  in  the 
treasury  to  pay  the  interest  on  the  mortgage, 
and  the  trustees  had  personally  guaranteed  the 
debt. 

"Where  is  the  money  to  come  from?"  asked 
the  president  of  the  Board,  more  to  relieve  his 
mind  than  in  the  expectation  of  any  reply. 

Dilke,  who  was  secretary  of  the  Board  and 
its  youngest  member,  sat  at  the  opposite  end  of 
the  long  directors'  table.  He  put  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  and  smiled  a  little,  as  he  tilted  his 
chair  on  two  legs ;  but  he  said  nothing. 

"Things  look  black,  I  admit,"  volunteered 
the  Reverend  James  Macassar,  stroking  his 
smooth,  distinguished  chin;  "but  we  must  re- 
member that  it  is  always  darkest  just  before 
dawn." 

"Yes,"  returned  Mr.  Towns,  the  lawyer;  "but 


AN   EMBARRASSMENT    OF   RICHES        19 

who  is  to  say  when  it  is  as  dark  as  it  is  going 
to  be?" 

At  length  Dilke  rose.  "  I  have  something  of 
importance  to  communicate  to  the  Board,"  he 
remarked.  "What  view  you  will  take  of  it  I 
don't  know.  Of  course  we  are  in  an  awkward 
situation.  We  were  fools  to  make  ourselves 
liable.  For  my  part,  I  am  sorry  that  we  ever 
embarked  on  the  enterprise,  though  I  do  not 
deny  that  the  library  promises  to  be  a  great 
help  to  the  town." 

"  All  very  true,  Doctor  Dilke,"  interrupted  the 
president  dryly,  "but  scarcely  news  to  the 
members  of  the  Board." 

"  No,  that  part  of  it  is  no  news  to  any  of  us," 
Dilke  went  on.  "  It  is  what  I  am  coming  to 
that  is  new.  I  have  in  my  pocket  an  offer  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  for  the 
benefit  of  this  library." 

A  stunned  silence  fell  upon  the  group  of  men. 

"Just  before  dawn!"  repeated  Doctor  Ma- 
cassar at  length,  smiling  gently  but  triumph- 
antly across  the  table  at  Mr.  Towns. 

"  What  did  you  mean.  Doctor  Dilke,"  the  law- 
yer cross-questioned,  "by  saying  that  you  did 
jiot  know  what  view  we  would  take  of  this 
offer?  What  view  is  there  to  take  of  it  except 
as  the  luckiest  thing  that  ever  happened  to 
save  a  sinking  ship? " 


20  CLAIMS   AND   COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Let  us  say  rather  a  direct  interposition  of 
Providence  to  assist  a  noble  cause!"  corrected 
Doctor  Macassar. 

"Well,"  Dilke  answered,  fingering  his  watch 
chain,  "  if  that  is  so,  all  I  can  say  is  that  Provi- 
dence uses  queer  instruments  sometimes.  The 
man  who  offers  this  money  is  Jacob  Secor." 

Jacob  Secor!  The  silence  fell  again  deeper 
than  ever.  Each  man  looked  at  his  neighbour. 
No  one  wished  to  be  the  first  to  speak. 

"  The  money  was  made  in  the  liquor  business," 
said  Mr.  Cantor,  the  president  of  the  Board, 
who  was  also  president  of  the  Pieria  Temperance 
Union. 

"I  don't  care  about  that,''  Dilke  protested. 
"The  liquor  business  is  as  good  as  any  other 
if  it  is  honestly  conducted." 

"Yes,  if;'  commented  Mr.  Towns.  "The 
trouble  is  that  nothing  Jake  Secor  had  a  hand 
in  was  ever  run  honestly.  He  cheated  me  out 
of  my  fee  when  I  defended  him  on  a  charge  of 
abetting  an  illicit  whiskey  still  in  Kentucky." 

"  *  Rare  sport  to  see  an  engineer  hoist  with  his 
own  petard!'"  murmured  Dilke,  and  added 
aloud:  "That  is  what  I  meant  by  saying  that 
I  did  not  know  what  you  would  think  of  it.  Secor 
writes  to  me  as  secretary  that  he  knows  he  has 
some  enemies  in  town,  and  that  hard  things  have 
been  said  of  him;  but  he  bears  no  malice." 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES        21 

"  Oh,  doesn't  he! "  growled  Mr.  Towns. 

"No.  He  says  that  he  always  felt  kindly 
toward  Pieria,  and  hearing  that  the  library 
was  in  trouble,  he  would  like  to  lend  a  helping 
hand.  He  attaches  a  condition,  however.  The 
library  must  be  named  for  him,  'The  Jacob 
Penhallow  Secor  Library.' " 

At  the  last  suggestion  the  tide  of  indignation 
swelled  so  high  as  almost  to  overwhelm  the 
Board — a  confused  volley  of  wrathful  exclama- 
tions poured  out. 

"The  impudent  scoundrel! " 

"  It  is  not  to  be  thought  of! " 

"  Nothing  less  than  insulting! " 

The  president  sat  back  and  said  nothing. 

"Of  course,"  Dilke  explained,  "we  are  in- 
dividually liable,  and  if  we  do  not  accept  this 
money  we  must  pay  it  out  of  our  own  pockets." 

Doctor  Macassar  buttoned  his  clerical  coat 
more  closely,  as  if  with  a  certain  satisfaction 
that  it  had  no  pockets  available. 

"After  all,"  asked  the  president  smoothly, 
"  are  we  not  assuming  too  hastily  that  the  matter 
cannot  be  satisfactorily  arranged?  It  has  diffi- 
culties— I  admit  it  has  difficulties;  but  is  it  not 
possible  to  separate  the  gift  from  the  giver? 
Secor  will  die  some  day ;  but  his  money  will  live 
on.  Is  it  not  better  that  it  should  be  doing 
good  than  harm — perhaps  engaged  in  carrying 


22  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

on  this  very  liquor  traffic  which  is  sapping  the 
moral  and  physical  strength  of  the  coimtry?" 

"  I  don't  understand,  Mr.  President,  that  this 
is  a  temperance  meeting,"  opposed  Dilke  with 
rising  temper. 

"  Every  meeting  should  be  a  temperance  meet- 
ing," answered  Mr.  Cantor,  now  fairly  mounted 
on  his  favourite  hobby.  "Intemperance  is  the 
crying  evil  of  our  time.  There  is  an  old  legend 
that  Jehovah  planted  the  vine  and  watered  it, 
first  with  the  blood  of  the  lamb,  afterward, 
when  it  was  grown,  with  the  blood  of  the  ape^ 
then  with  that  of  the  lion,  and  finally  with  that 
of  the  swine,  symbolising  the  progressive  effect 
of  drinking  upon  man." 

"Apparently,"  suggested  Dilke,  "there  is  no 
objection  then  to  the  first  drink." 

"A  dangerous  doctrine,  young  man — a  very 
dangerous  doctrine." 

"This  is  no  place,"  interrupted  Dilke,  "for 
discussion  of  that  question.  Some  of  us  believe 
in  the  liquor  business,  some  of  us  do  not;  but 
I  suppose  we  are  all  agreed  on  liking  an  honest 
man  and  money  honestly  come  by." 

"  The  next  generation  will  not  know  anything 
about  Secor,"  observed  the  practical  Mr.  Towns. 
"He  has  not  been  in  Pieria  for  ten  years,  and 
probably  will  not  be  here  for  ten  years  to 
come.    He    will    never    trouble    us,   and   the 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES         23 

children  who  are  growing  up  have  never  heard 
his  name." 

"I  think,"  said  Doctor  Macassar,  who  was 
an  apostle  of  compromise,  "that  our  president 
has  put  this  case  very  happily  in  saying  that  we 
may  in  some  sense  separate  the  gift  from  the 
giver.  If  we  take  the  money  we  may  hope  to 
obliterate  its  stain  by  a  consecration  to  new 
and  higher  ends.  We  must  not  forget,  gentle- 
men, the  history  of  the  foundation  of  the  great 
English  universities,  how  they  drew  their  sup- 
port from  plunder  and  injustice,  yet  have  risen 
to  be  held  the  chief  glory  of  the  most  enlightened 
nation  of  the  earth." 

A  low  murmur  of  applause  greeted  this  burst 
of  eloquence.  But  Dilke  rose  with  an  obstinate 
flush  on  his  cheek.  "  This  is  all  fine  talk,  gentle- 
men," he  blurted  out,  "and  I  wanted  to  see 
what  you  would  say.  For  my  part,  I  cannot 
see  my  way  beyond  the  fact  that  Secor  is  an 
infernal  scoimdrel." 

"  Do  you  wish  to  pay  the  money? " 

"No,  Mr.  Cantor;  but  I  will  pay  my  share 
rather  than  take  this  man's  money.  You  may 
salve  over  the  matter  as  you  like.  The  fact 
remains  that  accepting  Secor's  money  is  equiva- 
lent to  indorsing  him.  That  is  the  plain  English 
of  the  situation.  I  care  as  much  about  this 
library  as  any  of  you,  but  I  would  rather  see 


24  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

the  work  stopped  than  to  have  it  proceed  on 
this  basis." 

Dilke  sat  down.  An  uncomfortable  pause 
followed.  Then  the  apostle  of  compromise  rose 
and  began  conciliatingly :  "  I  see  Doctor  Dilke 's 
point  of  view,  and  it  does  him  great  credit, 
great  credit;  but  it  is  not  alone  a  question  of 
discharging  our  present  liabilities.  A  quarter  of 
a  million  dollars  under  the  control  of  this  library- 
would  supply  an  intellectual  awakening  to  the 
town.  It  would  build  a  lecture  hall,  supply 
lecturers  and  concerts,  make  a  nucleus  for  the 
higher  spiritual  activities.  There  is  no  end  to 
its  possible  benefits.  Are  we  lightly  to  throw 
all  this  away?" 

"  We  might  call  a  town  meeting  and  put  it  to 
vote,"  suggested  Mr.  Towns. 

"That  I  fear  is  impracticable,"  the  president 
remarked,  "for  to  make  the  people  understand 
the  issue,  too  many  unpleasant  explanations 
must  be  made." 

"Very  true,  Mr.  President,  very  true,"  as- 
sented the  apostle.  "  If  I  might  make  a  sug- 
gestion, I  would  propose  writing  to  Mr.  Secor 
that  we  appreciate  his  offer  and  will  accept  it 
in  the  name  of  the  people  of  this  town ;  but  that 
his  suggestion  of  naming  the  institution  the 
Jacob  Penhallow  Secor  Library  is  not,  in  our 
judgment,  advisable.    That,  however,  we  are 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES        25 

willing  to  compromise  on  calling  it  the  Secor 
Library;  the  Secors  being,  as  you  all  know,  an 
old  and  respected  family  in  this  vicinity." 

This  solution  met  with  approval.  Smiles 
reigned  all  about  the  table.  The  motion  was 
put  to  vote  and  carried  with  only  one  dissenting 
voice. 

When  the  result  was  announced  Dilke  rose 
and  took  his  hat.  His  face  was  very  red  and  he 
seemed  with  difficulty  to  be  suppressing  a 
passionate  outburst.  "I  wish,"  he  said,  con- 
trolling his  voice  as  well  as  he  could,  "to  offer 
my  resignation  both  as  secretary  and  trustee. 
To-morrow  I  will  put  it  in  writing."  Then 
he  went  out.  Mr.  Towns  was  appointed  secre- 
tary in  his  place  and  the  meeting  adjourned. 

Dilke  went  directly  home  and  found  his 
mother  sewing  in  the  little  green  sitting  room. 
He  went  in  and  walked  up  and  down,  with  head 
bent  and  hands  in  his  pockets.  Mrs.  Dilke, 
a  gentle  little  woman  whose  purple  eyes  shone 
from  under  her  white  hair  like  violets  under  a 
snow-bank,  watched  him  and  wondered  at  his 
restlessness;  but  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to  talk. 
He  wished  to  arrange  his  statement  of  the  case 
and  settle  matters  with  himself  first.  The  truth 
is  that  with  Dilke,  as  with  most  men,  a  mother 
had  a  dual  identity,  the  practical  half  of  which 
was  concerned  with  the  mending  of  his  clothes, 


26  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

the  superintendence  of  his  meals  and  the  general 
charge  of  his  bodily  welfare;  while  the  other 
and  spiritual  half  was  enshrined  with  the  family- 
Bible,  to  be  held  in  immense  tenderness  and 
reverence,  but  not  too  often  consulted  for 
advice. 

Mothers,  however,  do  not  always  accept  this 
reverential  shelving  as  they  should,  but  manifest 
an  untoward  desire  to  mingle  in  their  sons'  mun- 
dane and  masculine  affairs.  It  is  then  that  they 
become  irritating,  and  their  worshipful  sons 
mutter  the  ominous  word  "  Meddling." 

Mrs.  Dilke  watched  Anthony  wandering  about 
the  room  till  her  nerves  and  her  curiosity  were 
strained  to  the  breaking  point. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Tony?"  she  asked. 
"  Did  anything  go  wrong  at  the  meeting  of  the 
Library  Board  this  afternoon?" 

"Yes,"  her  son  answered  abruptly,  "the 
whole  Board  went  wrong.  I  told  them  so,  but 
they  would  not  believe  me.     So  I  resigned." 

"Tony!" 

"I  did.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  I  could 
do." 

Mrs.  Dilke  sat  looking  with  misgiving  in  her 
heart,  at  the  determined  face  opposite  her. 

"  You  must  not  forget,  Tony,  that  you  are  the 
youngest  member  of  the  Board,  and  a  great 
compHment  it  was,  your  being  elected.     If  all 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES         27 

the  others  were  against  you,  perhaps  it  was  you 
who  were  wrong." 

"  You  don't  know  anything  about  it,  Mother." 

"No.  How  can  I,  when  I  have  not  been 
told?" 

"  It  was  the  Board's  business,  not  mine.  I 
did  not  think  it  right  to  tell  anyone  till  I  had 
submitted  the  case  officially.  Jake  Secor  has 
offered  a  quarter  of  a  million  dollars  to  the 
library." 

"  Oh,  I  am  so  glad !  What  a  load  that  must  take 
off  your  mind!" 

"  I  voted  not  to  accept  it." 

"But  Tony " 

"There  are  no  buts  in  the  case,  Mother.  He 
is  a  scoundrel  and  the  library  has  no  right  to 
take  his  money." 

"Surely  you  needn't  have  resigned?" 

"There  is  no  use  in  discussing  the  matter, 
Mother.     If  you  don't  see  it  you  never  would." 

"  I  am  afraid  it  will  set  the  town  against  you." 

This  voicing  of  a  feeling  which  had  been 
rankling  in  Dilke's  own  mind  gave  bitterness  to 
his  tone  as  he  answered : 

"  I  suppose  if  a  man  sees  what  is  right  he  is 
bound  to  do  it  and  take  the  consequences,  is  he 
not?" 

"Of  course,"  faltered  Mrs.  Dilke. 

"Then    that    ends    the    question,"    her    son 


28  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

replied,  and  turning  on  his  heel,  was  leaving 
the  room  when  his  mother  followed  him  quickly, 
and  put  her  arm  softly  about  his  neck. 

"  Even  if  it  was  a  mistake,  I  am  glad,  Tony, 
that  you  did  what  you  thought  right — and 
remember,  whatever  comes,  I  am  on  your  side 
against  the  world." 

Dilke  lifted  his  head.  He  went  out  feeling 
that,  come  what  would,  there  was  a  love  which 
nothing  could  chill  or  weaken,  a  pride  in  him 
which  nothing  could  shake,  and  a  confident 
conviction  of  his  ultimate  justification. 

Much  rejoicing  was  in  Pieria  when  the  good 
fortune  which  had  befallen  the  town  became 
known.  Little  thought  was  given  to  the  source 
of  the  contribution.  If  a  few  shook  their  heads 
it  was  in  secret,  and  with  the  alleviating  thought 
that  a  man  lost  to  sight  for  ten  years  was  prac- 
tically dead,  and  to  the  dead,  especially  the  rich 
and  lavish  dead,  much  might  be  pardoned. 

The  library  and  the  new  hall  went  on  to  a 
glorious  completion,  and  everyone  but  Anthony 
Dilke  was  content. 

The  trustees  congratulated  themselves  on 
their  wisdom.  They  were  prudent  souls,  how- 
ever, and  wishing  to  avoid  complications,  they 
decided  to  place  the  dedication  ceremonies  in 
May,  when  they  learned  that  it  was  Mr.  Secor's 
intention  to  go  abroad  on  a  business  trip. 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES        29 

The  day  for  the  dedication  of  the  new  library- 
dawned,  fair  as  spring  and  sunshine  could  make 
it.  Great  were  the  preparations  for  the  cele- 
bration. The  brass  band  had  new  uniforms; 
the  mayor  and  the  president  of  the  library 
association  were  to  head  the  procession  start- 
ing from  the  town  hall.  They  were  to  be  fol- 
lowed by  the  library  trustees,  and  they  in  turn 
by  prominent  citizens,  the  Temperance  Union, 
and  a  band  of  young  women  in  white  represent- 
ing the  Christian  Endeavor  Society.  The  self- 
conscious  little  houses  along  the  route  smirked 
in  flags  and  flowers,  the  townsfolk  crowded 
the  sidewalks  or  hurried  to  secure  their  places 
in  the  hall. 

Among  them  was  Anthony  Dilke,  who  had 
felt  that  he  could  not  refuse  his  mother's 
earnest  request  that  he  would  accompany  her. 
Moreover,  he  was  moved  by  a  cynical  curiosity 
to  see  how  the  chief  actors  in  this  little  drama 
would  conduct  themselves  in  what  he  regarded 
as  a  trying  situation.  He  was  conscious  that 
he  stood  alone  in  this  view  of  it.  Everyone 
else  was  in  holiday  spirits  as  well  as  in  holiday 
attire.  The  bells  rang  gaily  from  the  steeple, 
the  banners  waved,  the  sun  shone. 

Could  anything  darken  the  glory  of  such  a 
halcyon  occasion? 

Yes,  one  thing  had  the  power;  and  that  one 


30  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

thing  happened.  The  unexpected  arrived,  and 
the  unexpected  was  Mr.  Jacob  Penhallow  Secor> 
who  presented  himself  unannounced,  explaining 
to  the  president  that  he  had  decided  at  the  last 
moment  to  postpone  his  European  trip  in  favour 
of  a  visit  to  Pieria. 

After  all,  what  more  natural  than  that  the 
prime  mover  in  all  this  festivity,  the  man  whose 
generosity  had  been  the  cause  of  all  these 
rejoicings,  should  wish  to  witness  the  fair  fruits 
of  his  bounty!  Why  had  no  one  foreseen 
the  probability,  and  why  were  mayor  and  alder- 
men, and,  above  all,  the  trustees  of  the  Secor 
Library,  thrown  into  such  consternation  by  the 
appearance  of  their  benefactor? 

At  any  rate,  here  he  was,  and  the  question, 
the  pressing  question,  was,  what  to  do  with 
him? 

Clearly,  he  must  walk  in  the  procession  and  in 
the  front  rank.  Accordingly  it  was  decreed 
that  the  mayor  should  head  the  procession, 
walking  alone,  while  following  him  should  walk 
Mr.  Cantor,  president  of  the  board  of  trustees 
of  the  Secor  Library,  president  of  the  Pieria 
Temperance  Union  and  secretary  of  the  Young 
Men's  Christian  Association,  arm  in  arm  with 
Mr.  Jacob  Penhallow  Secor,  president  of  the 
State  and  Territory  Whiskey  Trust. 

Mr.  Cantor  made  a  wry  face ;  but  it  could  not 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES        31 

be  avoided.  When  we  have  started  on  a  dubious 
journey  we  cannot  choose  our  own  companions. 

Even  more  awkwardly  placed  was  Doctor 
Macassar.  To  him  had  fallen  the  honovir  of 
making  the  opening  address.  He  was  to  give  an 
account  of  the  founding  of  the  library,  describing 
the  benefaction  and  omitting  all  praise  of  the 
benefactor.  Now  that  benefactor  was  to  be 
present,  to  be  listening. 

Really  it  was  awkward  for  the  apostle  of  com- 
promise. 

Meanwhile  no  one  could  be  more  unconcerned 
than  the  cause  of  all  this  perplexity.  Satisfac- 
tion with  himself  and  the  world  shone  forth  from 
his  face  as  he  stalked  along,  the  observed  of  all 
observers.  He  had  always  said  that  money 
could .  do  anything.  Now  he  knew  it.  The 
good  opinion  of  his  fellow-townsmen  had  been 
long  withheld,  but  it  was  his  at  last,  bought  with 
hard  cash.  As  he  glanced  up  at  the  large,  deep- 
cut  name  of  the  Secor  Library,  he  reflected  with 
cynical  satisfaction  that  critical  mouths  were 
shut  at  last,  though  it  had  taken  a  quarter  of  a 
million  dollars  to  do  it. 

He  saw  the  little  boys  climbing  the  electric- 
light  poles  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  hero  of  the 
day. 

"That's  him,  that's  Secor!"  he  heard  one 
urchin  say  to  another,  and  the  other  replied: 


32  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

**  He  owns  the  town  to-day,  sure  enough."  One 
of  the  boys  was  Ned  Cantor  and  the  other 
Tommy  Towns. 

On  the  whole,  Secor  felt  that  he  had  made  a 
good  investment.  As  he  passed  into  the  hall 
he  nodded  patronisingly  at  Mr.  Towns,  who 
returned  the  nod  sourly.  The  lawyer  would 
have  liked  to  administer  the  cut  direct ;  but  had 
he  not  taken  this  man's  money? 

Mr.  Towns  had  been  assigned  to  speak  second 
on  the  programme,  and  he  had  prepared  a  talk 
addressed  principally  to  the  young  men,  showing 
them  for  what  a  library  stood,  what  high  ideals 
literature  inculcated,  and  how  the  bulwarks  of 
the  state  were  "not  high-raised  battlements, 
but  men."  This  opening  was  to  be  followed  by 
a  discourse  on  the  ideal  citizen,  on  honesty  and 
civic  righteousness,  which  were  to  be  painted 
in  glowing  colours  and  the  corresponding  vices 
to  be  set  forth  in  lurid  opposition.  Now  Jacob 
Secor  had  appeared  to  spoil  it  all.  Every  word 
would  be  an  insult  to  the  guest  of  honour.  Speak 
of  civic  virtue  before  a  man  who  had  bribed 
legislatures!  Talk  of  business  uprightness  in 
the  face  of  one  whom  every  person  in  that  audi- 
ence knew  for  a  fraud  and  a  trickster! 

Even  a  lawyer  could  not  face  that  situation. 
He  thought  with  relief  that  the  brunt  of  allusion 
to  Secor  must  fall  on  Doctor  Macassar,  and  he 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES         33 

might  have  time  at  least  to  rearrange  his  ideas. 
Fancy  then  his  dismay  when  the  apostle  of  com- 
promise ended  his  somewhat  wandering  and 
ineffective  address  with  these  words: 

"  I  leave  to  the  speaker  who  follows  me,  "  indi- 
cating Mr.  Towns  with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  "  the 
pleasing  task  of  saying  a  word  of  welcome  to  the 
guest  of  honour,  the  son  so  long  absent  from  his 
native  town,  the  giver  of  this  noble,  this  mag- 
nificent monument." 

Amid  wild  applause  Mr.  Towns  rose.  He 
began  lamely  with  a  bow  toward  the  chair 
occupied  by  Mr.  Jacob  Secor. 

"  The  debt  we  owe — The  debt  we  owe."  Twice 
he  essayed  and  twice  turned  back  in  dread. 
"The  fact  is,"  he  said  at  length,  "that  I  must 
beg  the  indulgence  of  the  audience  if  my  words 
are  halting  and  few.  This  library  has  meant  so 
much  to  me  that  now,  as  I  look  around  upon  its 
completion,  I  find  my  heart  too  full  for  utter- 
ance and  I  must  leave  it  to  His  Honour,  the 
Mayor,  who  accepts  the  library'  in  the  name  of 
Pieria,  to  speak  of  our  feelings  toward  the 
foimder." 

With  wrath  in  his  heart,  but  smiles  on  his  lips, 
His  Honour,  the  Mayor  of  Pieria,  took  up  the 
word.  "I,  too,"  he  said,  "find  it  hard  to  ex- 
press in  adequate  language  our  thanks  for  the 
great  gift  which  we  have  received.     It  will  be  a 


34  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

source  of  benefit  to  hundreds  yet  unborn — yet 
unborn — and  thousands — yes,  thousands — will 
look  back  to  the  Secor  Library  as  the  influence 
which  helped  to  mould  their  lives.  The  giver 
of  this  splendid  benefaction  is  with  us  to-day. 
It  is  needless  to  introduce  him  to  this  audience. 
Himself  a  son  of  Pieria,  he  is  already  known  to 
many  among  you." 

"  Too  well  by  half!  "  muttered  Mr.  Towns. 

"His  character" — here  the  Mayor  seemed  to 
suffer  from  some  obstruction  in  his  throat,  but 
went  on  bravely — "his  character  speaks  for 
itself." 

"I  should  say  it  did!"  Doctor  Dilke  whis- 
pered to  his  mother. 

"  His  generosity  will  be  proclaimed  as  long  as 
this  library  stands!"  Then  turning,  with  relief 
at  a  successfully  accomplished  and  difficult 
task,  he  added  impressively,  "  In  the  name  of 
Pieria,  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Secor! " 

Jacob  Secor  rose  and  seemed  to  be  trembling 
on  the  verge  of  a  speech. 

The  trustees  moved  uneasily  in  their  seats. 
One  or  two  youths  in  a  front  seat  gave  a  ribald 
chuckle,  as  if  they  enjoyed  the  discomfiture  of 
the  dignitaries. 

But  the  presiding  officer  met  the  situation 
effectively.  Appearing  not  to  observe  Mr.  Secor's 
intention,  he  hastily  announced  the  singing  of 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES         35 

the  anthem  by  the  Temperance  Union  and  the 
Christian  Endeavor  young  ladies  assisted  by 
the  church  choir. 

The  anthem,  though  it  was  sung  to  the  tune 
of  "Integer  Vitse,"  reheved  the  tension  some- 
what, and  everyone  breathed  more  freely  when 
the  white-haired  pastor  emeritus  of  the  First 
Church  rose  to  deliver  the  benediction. 

"O  Lord,"  he  prayed,  "dismiss  us  with  Thy 
blessing!  Bless  to  us  our  successes  and  our 
failures,  our  virtues  and  our  sins !  May  we  learn 
from  them  all  and  may  we  in  the  final  account 
be  judged  by  the  best  things  we  have  done! " 

"The  old  man  saved  the  day,"  remarked 
Dilke  to  his  mother,  as  they  went  out  from  the 
hall.  "  But  I  am  glad  that  I  was  not  obliged  to 
walk  in  that  procession.  I  have  not  altered  my 
opinion  that  Pieria  has  paid  too  high  a  price  for 
her  library." 

Dilke,  however,  was  soon  made  to  realise 
that  the  affair  did  not  end  with  his  failure  to 
walk  in  the  procession.  He  had  given  offence 
to  the  most  prominent  men  in  town,  and  they 
made  their  resentment  felt. 

Personal  popularity  is  a  great  factor  in  a  phy- 
sician's success,  and  Dilke  speedily  began  to 
perceive  that  his  was  waning.  The  Reverend 
James  Macassar  urged  the  members  of  his  con- 
gregation to  employ  a  rival  4QCtor.     Mr.  Cantor 


36  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

failed  to  call  in  Dilke  when  his  wife  was  ill. 
Rumour  began  to  say  that  Dilke 's  treatment 
was  unsound,  a  report  as  fatal  in  medicine  as 
in  theology. 

Before  the  year  was  out  Dilke  realised  that 
there  was  no  future  for  him  in  Pieria.  His 
mother  perceived  his  growing  discouragement, 
and  one  day  she  said  to  him  softly:  "Never 
mind,  Tony ;  Pieria  is  not  the  world.  Go  away 
and  try  somewhere  else." 

"Why,  Mother,  you  have  been  counting  the 
years  while  I  was  away,  and  you  know  that  your 
dearest  wish  has  been  that  I  should  succeed  to 
my  father's  practice  here." 

"  My  dearest  wish  is  that  you  should  succeed 
somewhere." 

"Would  you  go,  too?" 

His  mother  shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "  I  will  stay  here  and  wait  for 
you." 

Dilke  was  quite  ashamed  at  the  thrill  of  pleas- 
urable excitement  which  shook  his  frame. 

"  I  believe  that  you  have  hit  upon  the  right 
scheme.  Mother.  You  always  do."  (It  is  won- 
derful what  intelligence  we  see  in  advice  which 
chimes  with  our  own  wishes.)  "I  will  go  to 
New  York — the  greater  the  place  the  greater  the 
chance." 

A  month  later  Dilke  set  off  with  a  heart  much 


AN  EMBARRASSMENT  OF  RICHES        37 

lighter  than  that  of  the  mother  who  watched  him 
from  her  window.  The  non-combatants  of  life 
bear  the  heaviest  burden. 

With  all  his  anxiety  for  the  future,  there  lay  in 
Dilke's  mind  a  cheerful  confidence  in  ultimate 
success,  combined  with  a  subtle  satisfaction  in 
the  thought  that  he  was  a  martyr  to  principle. 
No  hero,  this  Anthony  Dilke!  Only  a  self- 
confident  and  masterful  young  fellow  starting 
out  into  the  world  with  a  buoyant  determination 
to  smite  the  devil  wherever  he  might  meet  him, 
little  suspecting  that  the  battlefield  would  be  his 
own  soul,  and  that  the  devil  would  sometimes 
get  the  better  of  the  encounter. 


CHAPTER   III 
That  Not  Impossible  She 

Lives  approach  each  other  so  subtly  and  so 
suddenly  that  the  stranger  of  to-day  may  become 
the  soul-compelling  force  of  to-morrow.  Fate 
had  decreed  that  Joyce  Eldridge  should  be  a 
coming  power  in  Anthony  Dilke's  life,  though  as 
yet  he  had  never  heard  her  name  nor  dreamed  of 
her  existence.  She  was  a  daughter  of  a  New 
York  banker  living  in  one  of  the  old  wide- 
windowed  houses  on  Washington  Square. 

Many  times  in  the  course  of  Dilke's  first 
months  in  New  York  his  way  led  him  past  her 
door,  yet  nothing  moved  him  to  note  the  num- 
ber or  glance  at  the  window  as  he  passed.  None 
the  less,  destiny  was  weaving  its  web  about  him 
and  leading  his  unconscious  feet. 

One  winter  afternoon,  when  the  snowflakes 
were  falling  thickly  outside  and  spreading  a 
magic  carpet  over  the  little  square  in  front  of  the 
house.  Miss  Eldridge  stood  before  her  long  mir- 
ror while  her  maid  arranged  the  folds  of  her 
sable-trimmed  white  gown,  and  adjusted  the 
drooping  plumes  of  her  large  hat. 

38 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  39 

As  the  clock  on  the  mantel  struck  five,  she 
glanced  out  of  the  window  at  the  waiting  car- 
riage below. 

Joyce  Eldridge  was  the  youngest  child  of  an 
ill-assorted  marriage.  Her  mother  had  been  a 
descendant  of  the  old  Huguenots  who  settled 
here  and  there  along  the  banks  of  the  Hudson, 
while  the  Dutch  were  bartering  for  furs  and 
diking  swamps  in  Manhattan.  It  was  an 
aristocratic  blood,  a  blood  with  traditions,  a 
blood  which  had  preferred  poverty  to  trade, 
and  had  achieved  its  preferences. 

A  daughter  of  the  fifth  generation  found  the 
achievement  of  aristocratic  poverty  distasteful, 
and  wedded  a  prosperous  New  York  banker, 
himself  a  descendant  of  the  British  middle  class, 
with  the  prejudices  and  the  integrity  of  his 
ancestors.  She  was  a  creature  of  whims  and 
moods,  of  delicate  fancy  and  a  tendency  to  treat 
life  lightly,  turning  it  in  her  hands  like  a  vase  of 
Venetian  glass  to  enjoy  the  colours. 

Yet  to  her  natural  gaiety  she  united  a  tem- 
peramental timidity.  "A  large  discourse  of 
imaginative  fears  "  made  her  tremble  before  her 
husband's  blunt  speech  and  irascible  temper. 
Her  inheritance  was  one  of  courtesy,  of  regard 
for  the  little  amenities  of  life,  and  she  found  it 
difficult  to  adapt  herself  to  an  atmosphere  where 
they  were  ignored. 


40  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Mr.  Eldridge,  all  unconsciously  to  himself, 
was  constantly  wounding  this  "  pleasing,  anxious 
being,"  and  while  he  would  have  made  any 
sacrifice  for  her,  he  could  not  or  would  not  con- 
trol the  temper,  which,  like  all  uncurbed  faults, 
grew  steadily  in  its  mastery  over  him. 

Naturally  friction  resulted,  a  friction  which 
left  his  stalwart  love  for  her  unharmed,  but 
which  lessened  hers  for  him  till  it  became  a  thing 
of  shadowy  forms  and  regrets  for  what  might 
have  been,  while  all  her  caressing  affection  was 
reserved  for  her  children. 

Mrs.  Eldridge  had  died  when  Joyce  was  only 
twelve  years  old;  but  she  still  survived  in  her 
daughter,  who  to  a  natural  inheritance  of  char- 
acter had  added  the  conscious  imitation  of  those 
they  love,  which  children  early  learn. 

Joyce's  strict  sense  of  duty  was  the  only 
inheritance  of  character  which  she  owed  to  her 
father,  and  she  employed  it  strictly  in  his  behalf, 
though  this  was  not  always  easy.  The  same 
irascibility  which  had  estranged  his  wife  threat- 
ened the  loyalty  of  his  daughter.  He  had  always 
a  gift  for  making  wretched  the  people  whom  he 
loved  best. 

Mr.  Eldridge's  ideal  of  a  daughter  was  a 
mediaeval  chatelaine  who  went  about  with  keys 
at  her  belt,  distributing  supplies  and  making 
herself  personally  responsible  for  every  detail 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  41 

of  the  household,  while  Joyce  would  have 
dined  on  lentils  and  slept  on  a  board,  if  only  she 
might  have  had  gaiety  of  heart  and  a  circle  of 
agreeable  people  about  her. 

"Joyce!" 

The  sound  of  her  father's  tones  calling  from 
the  landing  below  startled  the  girl  from  a  train 
of  thought  which  had  left  her  gazing  into  the 
mirror  for  several  minutes  with  unseeing  eyes. 

"Yes,  Papa,"  she  responded,  picking  up  her 
gloves  and  card  case,  and  running  quickly  down 
the  stairs. 

Mr.  Eldridge  was  standing  by  the  window  in 
the  library,  and  as  Joyce  entered  she  perceived 
that  she  was  drawing  near  a  storm  centre. 

"  I  am  going  to  a  reception.  Do  you  want 
me?"  she  asked,  buttoning  her  left  glove  nerv- 
ously. 

"  I  want  someone;  I  have  rung  twice,  but  no 
one  answers." 

"  I  am  sorry — I'm  afraid  it  is  my  fault.  I  sent 
James  on  an  errand ;  Caroline  was  with  me,  and 
Sarah — I  don't  know  where  Sarah  is." 

"And  yet  you  call  yourself  the  mistress  of  this 
house." 

Joyce  tightened  her  lips,  but  her  voice  was 
steady  as  she  asked,  ignoring  the  challenge  in  her 
father's  tone:  "Is  there  anything  that  you 
need?" 


42  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Ink!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Eldridge  with  resent- 
ful brevity. 

**  I  will  find  it  for  you,"  Joyce  responded,  with 
more  assurance  in  her  voice  than  in  her  heart. 

She  searched  the  table  and  the  mantel  and  the 
desk.     There  was  no  ink  visible. 

"  Perhaps  Sarah  put  it  into  the  closet,"  Joyce 
ventured  at  last,  conscious  of  an  ominous  pater- 
nal silence. 

"Does  Sarah  expect  people  to  write  in  the 
closet?"  Mr.  Eldridge  inquired,  as  incisively  as 
if  his  tongue  had  been  coated  with  barbed  wire. 
Clearly  this  was  one  of  those  rhetorical  questions 
which  call  for  no  direct  reply.  His  daughter 
wisely  attempted  none;  but  burrowed  in  the 
closet  under  various  piles  of  paper  until  she 
found  what  she  sought  and  finally  emerged 
somewhat  flushed,  but  holding  aloft  in  triimiph 
a  heavy  bronze  inkstand. 

The  triumph  was  short  lived,  however,  for  her 
father's  next  demand  was  for  pens,  and  Joyce 
was  obliged  to  confess  that  they  had  all  been 
swept  into  the  waste  basket  and  not  replaced. 

Mr.  Eldridge  strode  up  and  down  in  silent 
fury. 

"  It  does  seem,"  he  observed  at  length,  appar- 
ently to  the  bookcases,  since  he  never  looked  at 
Joyce — "  it  does  seem  as  if  a  man  might  expect 
to   find  writing  materials   on   his   desk.     One 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  43 

would  think  that  a  girl  with  nothing  else  to  do 
all  day  might  see  that  the  maids  keep  one  room 
in  habitable  order." 

He  went  to  the  bell  and  rang  it  violently. 

"Here,  James!"  he  exclaimed,  holding  out  a 
bill  as  the  belated  butler  entered,  "go  to  the 
stationer's  and  buy  me  a  hundred  pens — a 
hundred,  mind!  Then  perhaps  I  may  find  one 
when  I  want  it." 

Joyce  crept  silently  out  of  the  room,  anxious  to 
escape  before  another  thundercloud  burst.  At 
the  head  of  the  stairs  she  met  her  brother  coming 
in  from  his  office,  and  bounding  lightly  up  the 
stairs,  taking  two  steps  at  a  time.  Henry 
Eldridge  was  a  youthful  repetition  of  the 
paternal  type.  His  resemblance  to  his  father 
was  so  strong  that  men  sometimes  stopped  him 
on  the  street  to  ask  if  he  were  not  the  son  of  Mr. 
Eldridge,  the  banker;  but  the  younger  face  was 
as  much  pleasanter  than  the  older  one  as  smiles 
are  more  attractive  than  frowns  and  a  smooth 
skin  than  a  wrinkled  one. 

Yet  the  nature  underneath  was  not  unlike. 
In  both  there  was  the  same  obtuseness,  the  same 
obstinacy,  only  masked  in  Henry's  case  by  a 
good  humour,  bom  of  youth  and  animal  spirits. 
He  was  well,  he  was  strong,  he  was  happy.  Why 
should  anyone  go  about  complaining?  Smile 
at  the  world  and  the  world  will  smile  at  you. 


44  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

That  was  his  motto,  as  he  frequently  announced 
with  a  certain  finaHty,  as  if  the  fact  that  it  was 
his  were  equivalent  to  saying  that  it  was  the 
best  imaginable. 

The  thing  which  tried  his  amiability  most  was 
the  constant  jarring  between  Joyce  and  his 
father.  He  was  on  good  terms  with  both.  Why 
could  they  not  agree  with  each  other?  Of 
course  his  father  scolded  and  domineered  on  all 
occasions,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  Joyce  pampered 
her  nerves  too  much,  and  made  a  mountain  out 
of  a  mole  hill.  A  little  tact  on  her  part  wotild 
keep  everything  running  smoothly. 

Nothing  is  easier  than  the  judicial  attitude  of 
mind  which  condemns  equally  both  parties  to  a 
quarrel,  without  taking  the  trouble  to  investi- 
gate the  rights  of  either.  Besides,  it  must  in 
justice  be  said  that  Mr.  Eldridge's  outbursts 
of  temper  were  mere  pin  pricks  to  Henry's 
healthy  nerves,  and  he  could  not,  in  his  obtuse- 
ness,  conceive  them  as  rankling  like  barbed 
arrows  in  his  sister's  sensitive  soul. 

When  he  saw  her  standing  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  he  knew  by  her  drooping  attitude  that 
something  was  wrong,  and  he  was  not  disposed 
to  be  sympathetic.  He  was  tired.  He  wanted 
his  bath  and  his  cigar.  If  women  must  indulge 
their  feelings,  why  could  they  not  do  it  in  the 
morning,  when  men  were  at  work  ? 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  45 

However,  he  greeted  Joyce  kindly  enough. 
"What's  the  matter  now?"  he  asked. 

"The  same  old  story !"  exclaimed  his  sister 
despondently ,  throwing  out  both  hands .  ' '  Every- 
thing is  wrong  and  I  am  responsible." 

"Why  do  you  care?  You  know  that  father 
doesn't  mean  what  he  says.  You  make  too 
much  of  every  little  thing." 

"Now,  Henry!"  expostulated  his  sister,  thor- 
oughly aroused,  "it  is  very  easy  for  you  to  look 
on  and  say  'don't  mind';  but  suppose  that 
father  came  down  to  your  office  and  found  fault 
with  you " 

"  I  should  take  the  next  train  to  San  Fran- 
cisco." 

"That  is  what  it  is  to  be  a  man." 

"It  has  its  advantages,"  Henry  said,  in  the 
tone  of  indulgent  superiority  with  which  a 
capitalist  might  address  a  labourer,  or  a  white 
man  a  Negro;  "but  I  thought  that  women 
liked  being  lectured  and  ordered  about.  They 
do  in  books." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  women  in 
books,"  Joyce  answered,  "but  I  know  one  girl 
in  real  life  who  does  not  like  it  in  the  least." 

The  easy  expression  of  sympathy  is  a  feminine 
gift.  A  man — especially  a  young  man — feels 
as  inadequate  before  it  as  if  he  were  set  to  mend 
gloves  or  darn  stockings. 


46  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Henry  looked  at  Joyce  with  the  clumsy 
sympathy  of  a  dumb  animal.  As  they  stood 
thus  facing  each  other  they  were  a  curious 
illustration  of  the  possibilities  of  opposite  in- 
heritance from  the  same  blood.  Henry  was  a 
type  of  boisterous  burliness.  His  good  looks 
were  due  to  his  ruddy  colouring  and  the  frank 
outlook  of  honest  eyes;  his  sister's  every  line 
and  delicate  curve  told  of  controlled  sensitive- 
ness. Her  beauty  came  and  went  like  the  colour 
in  her  cheeks.  Her  chestnut  hair  fell  softly 
over  the  pencilled  aristocracy  of  her  eyebrows, 
and  her  features  were  cut  with  precision,  as  if 
worked  in  a  cameo.  Some  people  called  the 
face  cold;  but  they  were  not  those  who  knew 
it  best. 

Strangers  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  there 
could  be  both  warmth  and  tenderness  in  the 
eyes  which  seemed  to  look  out  on  the  world 
around  with  a  cool  aloofness  as  of  a  traveller 
and  an  alien.  There  was  a  light  mockery  in  the 
eyes,  as  they  turned  now  upon  the  figure  of  the 
man  standing  awkwardly  before  her. 

"  Do  not  try  to  be  sympathetic,  Henry.  You 
really  cannot  achieve  it.  Only  tell  me  if  my 
hat  is  straight,  and  if  my  gloves  have  suffered 
from  groping  for  an  inkstand  on  the  closet  floor." 

"You  are  all  right.  You  do  look  lovely, 
Joyce,  and  that's  a  fact,"  her  brother  answered 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  47 

with  enthusiasm,  much  relieved  to  be  able  to 
return  to  a  lighter  vein,  wherein  he  felt  himself 
more  at  home. 

"Thank  you,  Henry.  Flattery  is  very  sus- 
taining." 

"  By  the  way,  where  are  you  going? " 

"  I  have  half  a  dozen  teas  on  my  list;  but  I 
have  given  them  up  on  accoimt  of  the  storm. 
I  shall  go  only  to  a  reception  at  Mrs.  Adrian 
Gregory's.     I  wish  that  you  would  go  with  me." 

"Don't  ask  me,  Joyce — I  couldn't.  I  might 
form  the  habit  of  teas " 


"  It  would  do  you  good " 

"  By  no  means.  After  business  hours  I  intend 
to  be  amused,  and  I  don't  find  teas  amusing. 
With  a  woman  it  is  different.  You  go  to  show 
your  fine  clothes  and  to  see  other  people's." 

"Partly,"  Joyce  answered,  "and  partly  to 
get  new  outlooks — *  to  touch  and  go,  and  sip  the 
foam  of  many  lives';  but  I  could  not  make  you 
understand.     Good-bye." 

With  a  smile  curving  like  an  inverted  rainbow 
behind  the  half-dried  tears  in  her  eyes,  Joyce 
went  down  the  stairs,  leaving  her  brother  looking 
after  her  from  above. 

"  It  is  hard  on  Joyce,"  Henry  said  to  himself. 
"  I  think  I  must  have  it  out  with  father,  myself, 
some  day  " ;  a  resolution  which  to  Henry's  mind 
was  as  serious  as  if  he  had  determined  to  enter 


48  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

the  cage  of  a  lion  and  hold  a  personal  interview 
behind  the  bars.  He  pondered  long  on  the  risks 
involved. 

Meanwhile  the  Eldridge  carriage  wheeled  into 
the  avenue,  and  joined  the  procession  of  vehicles 
which  moved  so  slowly  as  to  suggest  a  festive 
funeral  march.  The  girl  looked  out  through 
the  window  at  the  passers-by,  the  pedestrians 
beating  their  way  against  the  snow-laden  wind, 
and  the  women  in  carriages  wrapped  in  furs. 
She  strove  to  occupy  her  attention  with  the 
passing  show;  but  all  the  while  her  thoughts 
were  going  over  the  interview  with  her  father 
which  had  fallen  into  her  cheerful  day  like  a 
thunderbolt,  and  left  electricity  still  charging 
the  air. 

It  is  not  the  first  family  difference,  but  the 
hundredth,  which  tells  on  the  nerves,  and  pro- 
duces the  effect  with  which  a  repeated  discord 
exasperates  the  ear. 

Joyce's  sense  of  irritation  grew  stronger  in- 
stead of  diminishing,  and  her  nervous  tension 
showed  itself  in  the  tightening  grasp  of  her  card 
case,  which  was  bent  nearly  double  in  her  un- 
conscious clasp.  It  was  perhaps  natural  that  her 
father's  petulance  rather  than  her  own  careless- 
ness should  have  been  most  insistent  in  the 
girl's  mind. 

Responsibility,  thrust  too  early  on  youthful 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  49 

shoulders,  produces  either  premature  gravity 
or  rebelUon  of  spirit.  With  Joyce  it  was  the 
latter,  and  the  flush  on  her  cheeks  bespoke  many 
things  which  her  Hps  left  unuttered. 

When  she  reached  Mrs.  Gregory's  house  she 
found  the  rooms  crowded  and  the  scent  of  roses 
heavy  in  the  air,  while  talkers  and  musicians 
were  apparently  engaged  in  a  strenuous  com- 
petition of  noise  making. 

After  greeting  her  hostess,  Joyce  drifted  with 
the  throng  which  was  streaming  with  naive 
eagerness  toward  the  refreshment  room  and 
away  from  the  person  whom  the  visitors  were 
supposed  to  have  come  to  meet.  Before  she 
had  traversed  half  the  distance  her  voice  was 
weary  and  her  brain  exhausted  from  the  ex- 
change of  shouted  commonplaces.  She  smiled 
to  herself  at  the  emphasis  with  which  people 
put  questions  without  taking  time  to  listen 
to  her  replies — without  even  fixing  their  eyes 
upon  her  as  they  spoke — and  at  the  cordiality 
of  greeting  from  several,  who  turned  while  she 
was  still  within  hearing  to  ask  her  name. 

Wherever  she  moved  glances  turned  toward 
the  slender  figure  in  white,  and  comments  fol- 
lowed her  like  foam  in  the  wake  of  a  yacht. 

"Is  she  not  beautiful?"  a  man  exclaimed  to 
a  woman  near  him.  His  companion  shrugged 
her  shoulders. 


60  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Not  what  I  call  beautiful,"  she  answered; 
"  and  her  hair  looks  as  if  she  had  done  it  herself." 

"Oh!"  the  man  responded,  not  daring  to 
commit  himself  by  asking  what  was  so  fatal  to 
beauty  in  domestic  hairdressing ;  but  turning 
for  another  look  at  the  person  whom  he  was  not 
to  admire. 

Meanwhile  Joyce  was  uncomfortably  conscious 
that  the  effect  of  high-pitched  conversation 
had  developed  a  distinct  ache  in  her  throat. 
She  disentangled  herself  from  a  group  which  had 
gathered  about  her,  and  withdrew  to  a  curtained 
comer  of  the  drawing  room,  near  enough  to 
the  hostess  to  insure  seclusion. 

For  some  time  she  stood  looking  with  only 
half-seeing  eyes  at  the  swaying  crowd  around 
her.  Then  suddenly  she  began  to  feel  as  if  she 
were  swaying,  too.  The  interview  with  her 
father  had  been  more  of  a  strain  than  she 
realised,  and,  as  usual  with  nervous  tempera- 
ments, the  reaction  was  the  more  complete 
for  being  delayed  by  an  exertion  of  the  will. 
The  electric  lights  seemed  to  grow  to  moons 
before  her  eyes,  the  scent  of  the  flowers  became 
sickeningly  strong — she  looked  about  her  for 
a  chair  or  lounge,  but  the  room  had  been 
cleared  to  leave  as  much  space  as  possible. 
There  might  have  been  a  label  over  the  door, 
"Standing  room  only." 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  51 

While  Joyce  was  looking  around  in  dazed 
indecision,  her  eyes  met  those  of  a  man  who 
stood  near  her,  surveying  the  people  about 
with  the  detached  air  of  a  stranger.  He  was 
a  strikingly  handsome  man — his  figure  was  well 
knit,  his  head  finely  formed.  The  features  were 
inharmonious,  the  broad  forehead  and  narrow 
chin  contrasting  as  oddly  as  the  proud  eyes 
and  sensitive  mouth.  The  whole  face  was 
marked  by  many  contradictions,  but  bore  the 
impress  of  dynamic  power.  As  his  glance  fell 
upon  Joyce  he  moved  toward  her  and  said: 
"You  are  faint;  you  need  to  get  out  into  the 
fresh  air.  I  will  make  a  way  through  the 
crowd,  if  you  are  able  to  follow." 

Joyce  nodded.  She  remembered  afterward  her 
sense  of  gratitude  that  he  did  not  put  anything 
as  a  question,  for  she  felt  her  complete  inability 
to  speak.  She  could  only  move  uncertainly  in 
the  wake  of  the  broad-shouldered  figure  before 
her.  As  she  reached  the  hall  door  the  cold  air 
revived  her  at  once;  but  her  companion  stood 
by  her  side  for  a  minute  in  silence  before  he 
said: 

"Do  you  wish  to  go  home?  May  I  call  your 
carriage  ? " 

"Thank  you,"  Joyce  answered;  "you  are 
very  kind.  Yes,  I  wish  to  go  home.  Will  you 
please  speak  to  my  footman — the  one  in  brown 


52  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

holding  a  fur  cape — and  tell  him  that  I  am 
ready  ? " 

Joyce's  mind  was  still  confused,  and  she  was 
compelled  to  force  her  lips  to  consecutive  speech. 
It  did  not  occur  to  her  to  give  her  name,  nor  to 
Dilke  (for  it  was  Dilke)  to  ask  it.  As  she  spoke 
he  ran  down  the  steps  to  the  row  of  liveried 
figures,  who  stood  immovable  as  an  avenue  of 
sphinxes  before  an  Egyptian  temple.  When  he 
found  the  man  in  brov/n  with  the  fur  cape,  he 
realised  for  the  first  time  the  awkwardness  of 
not  knowing  the  name  of  the  lady  whom  he  was 
trying  to  assist.  His  first  instinct  was  to  seize 
the  cape,  for  he  knew  that  its  owner  shoiild  not 
stand  in  the  wind  without  it;  but  he  was  aware 
that  his  action  might  rouse  not  unreasonable 
suspicions,  so  he  said:  "Your  mistress  wishes 
her  carriage  at  once.  She  is  waiting  at  the  door. 
Take  her  the  wrap  and  call  the  carriage  directly." 

As  Dilke  rejoined  her  at  the  head  of  the  steps 
Miss  Eldridge  noticed  that  he  was  without  hat 
or  coat,  and  that  the  wind  was  cold.  His  face 
and  figtire  were  still  a  blur  before  her  bewildered 
sight;  but  she  realised  that  he  might  be  suffering 
some  risk  from  this  exposure. 

"Please  don't  wait  for  me!"  she  exclaimed 
"  There  is  nothing  more  that  you  can  do.     I  am 
immensely  obliged." 

Dilke  made  no  immediate  response   to  her 


THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  58 

words.  He  stood  looking  at  her  with  a  glance 
too  steadily  scrutinising  to  be  admiring,  too 
professional  for  any  suggestion  of  imperti- 
nence. 

"  Are  you  sure  that  you  feel  well  enough  to  go 
home  alone? "  Dilke  questioned. 

"Oh,  quite!  I  should  not  even  fear  going 
back  into  the  drawing  room." 

"  I  advise  you  not  to  try  the  experiment,  and 
your  carriage  is  here." 

Dilke  followed  her  down  the  steps  and  handed 
her  into  the  carriage.  He  lingered  an  instant, 
half  unconsciously  hoping  to  hear  the  address ; 
but  she  said  only  "  Home! "  and  straightway  was 
whirled  from  his  vision  and  as  completely  lost 
as  if  they  had  been  on  separating  ships. 

Dilke  returned  to  the  house,  and,  after  secur- 
ing his  hat  and  coat  and  extricating  himself  from 
the  crush  on  the  stairway,  came  out  into  the 
street  again.  As  he  bent  his  head  to  meet  the 
snowy  blasts  a  new  exhilaration  took  the  place 
of  the  discouragement  which  had  beset  him 
during  the  past  weeks  of  loneliness  and  lack  of 
success. 

This  chance  encounter  with  a  passing  stranger 
had  wrought  a  change  in  him.  The  world 
seemed  more  real  to  him  because  this  girl  was  in 
it.  The  touch  of  her  fingers  on  his,  as  he  handed 
her   into    the    carraige,    still   lingered   like    an 


64  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

imminent  presence  with  a  warm  and  human 
significance. 

Even  strangers,  it  seemed,  might  be  something 
to  each  other.  It  was  not  so  much  the  passing 
vision  of  a  charming  woman  which  had  warmed 
Dilke's  heart,  though  he  was  of  an  age  when  that 
alone  might  have  raised  his  drooping  spirits; 
it  was  rather  that  she  typified  to  his  mind  a  pos- 
sible friendliness,  a  possible  need  for  him  in  a 
world  which  had  seemed  till  now  oblivious  of  his 
existence  and  impermeable  to  his  influence. 

There  are  moments  in  our  lives  when  trivial 
happenings  are  charged  with  an  importance  out 
of  proportion  to  their  superficial  value,  as  if  they 
were  straws  trembling  before  the  coming  wind 
of  destiny. 


CHAPTER   IV 
A  Debtor  to  His  Profession 

"The  greater  the  place  the  greater  the  suc- 
cess  "  yes,  and  the  greater  the  failure  also. 

Anthony  Dilke  walked  up  and  down  in  his 
office  in  New  York.  His  head  was  bent,  and 
from  time  to  time  he  twisted  the  ends  of  his 
moustache  into  his  mouth. 

"  Hard  luck  ! "  he  muttered. 

And  hard  luck  indeed  it  was.  Here  was  a 
man  of  promise,  educated  in  the  best  medical 
schools,  who  now,  at  thirty,  almost  the  term  of 
average  mortal  life,  found  himself  without  a 
patient.  He  tried  to  keep  up  his  mother's 
courage,  but  his  own  was  ebbing  fast.  He  found 
a  certain  grim  amusement  in  his  mother's  warn- 
ings against  overwork. 

Moreover,  other  troubles  than  those  of  pov- 
erty harassed  Dilke's  soul.  To  draw  upon  his 
mother's  slender  income  would  be  impossible. 
To  disappoint  her  assurance  of  his  success,  to 
have  Pieria  know  that  he  had  failed,  would  be 
gall  and  wormwood  to  his  pride. 

In  a  great  city  one  is  merged  in  a  crowd  in- 

55 


56  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

different  to  individual  success  or  failure ;  but  not 
so  in  a  town  where  everyone  knows  the  affairs  of 
everyone  else,  and  where  an  ever-open  eye  and 
ear  glean  every  detail  of  a  fellow-townsman's 
career. 

To  fail,  Dilke  felt,  was  to  disappoint  his  friends 
and  gratify  his  enemies.  Failure  was  the  one 
thing  which  he  had  never  contemplated  when  he 
left  Pieria,  and  he  would  not  admit  for  an  instant 
that  he  had  shaken  the  dust  of  that  town  off 
his  feet  only  to  wear  it  on  his  head,  with  an 
admixture  of  ashes  as  a  sign  of  penitence  for 
his  boldness.  Should  he  bow  the  knee  to 
Secor,  ask  aid  of  Cantor,  confess  to  Towns  that 
New  York  would  have  none  of  him  and  that 
he  must  come  back  to  Pieria  to  subsist  on 
humble  pie?  No!  Anything  was  better  than 
that — anything;  but  precisely  what?  That  was 
the  question  which  was  preying  upon  him  like  a 
vampire. 

He  had  invested  his  last  thousand  dollars  in 
an  office  on  a  busy  New  York  thoroughfare, 
hoping  that  some  lucky  accident  might  throw 
practice  in  his  way;  but  all  in  vain.  Automo- 
biles whirled  by  in  safety.  Horses  picked  their 
way  down  the  slippery  asphalt  hill  without  a 
fall.  Pedestrians  skated  along  on  icy  days, 
when  one  might  look  at  any  instant  for  a  broken 
limb,  and  still  nothing  happened.     It  was  an 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION         57 

outrageously  well-conditioned  world  in  which 
Dilke's  lot  was  cast. 

His  office  boy  strove  to  encourage  him  by 
reports  of  visitors  who  called  while  he  was  out 
and  refused  to  leave  their  names.  Richard  had 
a  precocious  eye  and  a  backward  forehead.  He 
was  an  expert  at  the  long  bow  and  capable  of 
enormous  fabrications. 

For  some  time,  in  spite  of  making  requisite 
deductions,  Dilke  had  been  cheered  by  the 
shadowy  procession  of  hypothetical  visitors,  but 
at  last  he  was  driven  to  admit  that  neither  office 
nor  office  boy  was  advancing  him  an  inch  toward 
the  desired  goal  of  a  lucrative  practice. 

Evidently  there  was  no  career  open  to  talent 
in  this  great  city,  without  clues,  and  Dilke  had 
none — unless  one  counted  as  such  the  cards  to  a 
reception  like  the  one  of  yesterday. 

Dilke  remembered  with  a  certain  bitterness 
the  loneliness  which  had  fallen  upon  him  like  a 
leaden  weight  as  he  looked  about  on  the  un- 
familiar faces,  so  animated,  so  full  of  eagerness 
for  each  other,  so  blankly  unseeing  when  turned 
toward  himself;  and  then  that  swaying  white 
figure — it  haunted  him  still.  He  had  been  con- 
scious of  a  sense  of  attraction  as  if  like  had  drawn 
near  like.  Here  was  someone  who  might  have 
come  into  his  life,  and  instead  she  had  disap- 
peared like  a  simimer  mist.     It  was  the  old  story 


68  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

of  "no  clues."  Even  Theseus  could  not 
find  his  way  through  the  labyrinth  without 
them. 

Clues,  substantial  clues,  had  indeed  been 
offered;  but  they  had  come  from  such  a  source 
that  Dilke's  pride  forbade  his  acceptance  of 
them.  They  were  proffered  by  Eustace  Bran- 
dy ce.  Only  a  week  ago  Dilke  had  received  a 
letter  from  that  wanderer,  saying  that  he  had 
heard  through  Newbold  of  Dilke's  change  of 
base,  and  knowing  from  experience  how  hard  it 
was  to  get  on  in  a  new  place,  it  would  give  him 
pleasure  to  send  a  note  of  introduction  to  rela- 
tives of  his  own,  people  rather  influential  in  New 
York,  if  Dilke  cared  to  know  them.  The  letter 
went  on  to  say  that  he.  Brandy  ce,  happened  to 
be  in  funds  just  now,  and  that  if  Dilke  found 
himself  straitened  he  had  only  to  ask  for  some 
money,  which  he  could  repay  whenever  it  was 
convenient. 

The  letter  was  lying  open  upon  the  desk,  which 
stood  in  one  comer  of  the  long  and  narrow  office. 
Each  time  that  Dilke  passed  the  desk  his  eye 
fell  upon  it.  Each  time,  however,  he  shook  his 
head.  No,  whatever  happened,  there  should  be 
no  further  indebtedness  there.  In  all  his  dreams 
it  had  been  he  who  did  some  great  service  to 
Brandy  ce,  and  it  seemed  the  irony  of  fate  that 
the  case  should  be  reversed.     It  was  kind  in 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION         59 

Brandyce.  He  admitted  that  it  was  kind;  but 
acceptance  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

As  he  strode  up  and  down  his  barren  office  this 
afternoon,  the  future  looked  very  black  and  the 
present  even  blacker.  Something  must  be  done 
to  make  both  ends  meet.  Alas!  there  was  no 
surgical  operation  which  would  accomplish  that 
feat.  He  must  attract  the  attention  of  the 
public.     But  how? 

The  question  found  no  answer  in  his  mind, 
and  he  seated  himself  wearily  at  his  desk. 
Thrusting  Brandyce 's  letter  hastily  into  a 
drawer,  he  drew  toward  him  a  pile  of  manuscript 
which  represented  an  article  that  he  was  pre- 
paring for  a  radical  magazine.  It  was  entitled 
"The  Development  of  the  Human  Conscience." 

Dilke  had  begun  it  in  bitterness  of  spirit,  and 
had  taken  a  savage  satisfaction  in  showing  con- 
science as  the  most  cunning  device  of  fate  for 
the  torture  of  humanity.  He  had  made  a  study 
of  the  history  of  the  early  Church,  its  martyrs 
and  its  self-tormentors,  its  hair  shirts,  its  fast- 
ings and  scourgings.  The  supreme  inutility  of 
these  sacrifices  weighed  upon  him  as  he  wrote. 
It  seemed  like  a  breath  of  fresh  air  to  turn  back 
to  the  Greek  view  of  life,  to  the  pursuit  of  hap- 
piness as  a  rational  end,  and  to  the  glorification 
of  the  hiunan  body.  What  would  the  world  be 
to-day   if   its   minds   were   cased   in   perfectly 


60  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

developed  bodies  tingling  with  the  joy  of  exist- 
ence !  What  a  liberator  would  he  be  who  could 
set  free  the  morbid  conscience  and  the  afflicted 
soul,  by  sending  the  blood  in  a  red  flow  of  health 
through  the  anaemic  brain!  There,  in  the  re- 
newal of  the  physical  basis  of  life,  lay  the  fotinda- 
tion  of  the  new  morality,  the  new  philosophy, 
the  new  religion. 

The  theory  of  the  mind's  control  over  the 
body  had  been  pushed  to  a  grotesque  absurdity. 
It  was  time  the  world  recognised  that  it  was  not 
only  a  fallacy,  but  a  direct  reversal  of  the  true 
principle.  Who  should  say  that  there  was  not 
an  immense  field  open  to  science  in  studying  sin 
from  a  purely  materialistic  standpoint?  Not 
only  mental  but  spiritual  disorders  might  be 
directly  benefited  by  creating  the  sound  body, 
which  alone  the  sound  mind  and  soul  would 
deign  to  inhabit. 

As  Dilke  pondered  on  all  this  he  began  to 
think  of  himself  as  a  pioneer  in  a  new  revival. 
Unformed  theories,  half  humorous,  half  serious, 
floated  through  his  mind  as  he  dwelt  upon  the 
possibility  that  each  spiritual  defect  had  its 
bodily  correlative,  that  lying  was  an  astigma- 
tism of  the  soul,  that  the  homicidal  tendency 
might  be  cured  by  relieving  a  pressure  on  some 
diseased  point  in  the  brain. 

Subconsciously,   too,  he  was  thinking  what 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION  61 

effect  the  promtdgation  of  such  a  doctrine  might 
have  upon  his  own  professional  advancement. 
That  was  the  weak  point.  The  confusing  of 
aims  is  the  seed  of  sin. 

Anthony  Dilke  was  passing  through  an  inward 
crisis  full  of  danger.  He  had  allowed  himself  to 
forget  the  oath  of  Hippocrates  by  which  the 
ancient  practitioner  bound  himself  to  enter  his 
patient's  house  only  to  do  him  good,  and  to 
avoid  the  appearance  of  evil. 

"After  all,"  Dilke  told  himself  of  the  scheme 
which  his  mind  was  rapidly  revolving,  "  it  would 
be  only  a  breach  of  professional  etiquette." 

"Yes,"  whispered  conscience,  "but  profes- 
sional etiquette  is  the  outer  line  of  defenses,  the 
citadel  of  which  is  professional  ethics." 

"  It  can  do  no  harm.  It  may  do  good.  It 
may  do  me  good,"  Dilke  persisted. 

With  this  he  pulled  down  a  large  square  of 
pasteboard  from  the  top  of  his  desk  and  began 
to  print  on  it.  When  the  work  was  done  he  held 
it  at  arm's  length  and  studied  the  result: 


ANTHONY  DILKE.  M.  D. 

PAGAN    HEALER. 


Then  without  giving  himself  time  to  reflect, 
he  opened  the  inner  blinds  and  propped  the 


62  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

sign  against  the  window.  Hardly  had  he  taken 
his  seat  at  the  desk  again  before  the  bell  rang, 
Dilke  started  as  if  he  had  touched  an  electric 
battery.  Here  for  days  and  weeks  he  had  been 
listening  with  nerves  in  a  state  of  ever-growing 
tension  for  that  sound,  and  now  that  it  had 
come  his  legs  trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely 
cross  the  floor,  and  his  hand  ftimbled  for  a  full 
minute  at  the  latch.  He  wished  that  the  office 
boy  were  not  out, 

The  door  opened  and  a  young  man  entered. 

"Is  Doctor  Dilke  at  home?"  he  asked. 

The  question  was  as  manna  to  Dilke 's  hungry 
soul. 

"  I  am  Doctor  Dilke.  Will  you  not  walk  in? " 
he  answered,  and  pushed  a  chair  forward.  Then 
he  turned  to  close  the  door,  glad  of  a  chance  to 
calm  the  working  of  his  face. 

"I  saw  your  sign  in  the  window,"  the  visitor 
began. 

"  Put  up  in  the  nick  of  time !  **  thought  Dilke. 
"  You  have  come  to  consult  me  about  yourself? " 
he  asked. 

"  No,  oh  no ! "  the  young  man  replied.  "  I  have 
no  need  for  a  physician." 

"Then,"  exclaimed  Dilke,  his  spirits  sinking 
to  zero,  "perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
tell  me  why  you  have  come  to  a  doctor's  office." 

"Certainly — I  was  coming  to  that.     I  am  a 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION         63 

reporter  on  The  Morning  Glory,  and  my  busi- 
ness to-day  was  a  column  of  'Along  the  Way ' — 
all  the  queer  things  which  one  sees  or  should 
see  as  one  goes  about.  It  has  been  an  uncom- 
monly dull  day  on  the  street,  and  I  assure  you 
it  was  a  windfall  for  me  when  I  saw  your  sign. 
So  I  looked  in  to  inquire  whether  you  would 
give  me  an  interview." 

Dilke  hesitated.  He  realised  that  his  con- 
duct had  been  too  impetuous.  He  should  have 
waited  to  mature  his  scheme  before  putting  up 
that  sign ;  but  it  was  too  late  to  turn  back  now, 
and  after  all,  here  was  the  chance  for  publicity 
for  which  he  had  vainly  longed. 

"I  should  not  care,"  he  began  hesitatingly, 
"to  say  much  for  publication  at  present,  cer- 
tainly not  to  go  into  details;  but  I  have  no 
objection  to  explaining  briefly  the  fundamental 
principles  of  my  practice." 

"  Fundamental  principles  " ;  the  words  sounded 
well  and  gave  him  courage  to  proceed  as  the 
reporter  drew  out  his  notebook. 

"Have  you  been  long  engaged  in  the  work?" 
his  visitor  asked. 

"H'm!  Not  long,  considering  its  extent  and 
intricacy,"  Dilke  answered. 

"What  is  the  work?" 

"  Keeping  soul  and  body  together! "  exclaimed 
Dilke,    then    added    hastily:     "Reuniting    the 


64  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

physical  and  spiritual  world  on  the  only  sound 
and  sane  basis — the  basis  of  the  perfect  body. 
Not  since  the  days  of  the  Greeks  has  there  been 
any  adequate  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of 
the  sound  body  and  that  physical  perfection 
from  which  alone  mental  perfection  can  take  its 
rise.  I  do  not  refer  to  genius,  which  is  a  freak 
of  nature,  but  to  a  rounded  and  complete  men- 
tality. I  am  a  materialist,  and  I  aim  to  study 
mental  defects  in  the  light  of  physical  conditions. 
I  regard  mind  as  a  function  of  matter." 

The  visitor  wrote  rapidly  for  a  few  moments. 
Then  he  said,  "Couldn't  you  explain  a  little 
more  clearly?" 

Dilke  looked  out  of  the  window  meditatively, 
as  if  striving  to  simplify  and  popularise  a 
profound  subject. 

"  It  was  one  of  the  mistakes  of  the  early 
Chiirch,"  he  said,  "  to  teach  abuse  and  mortifica- 
tion of  the  body  as  a  religious  duty  and  a  sure 
road  to  everlasting  reward.  From  this  all 
Christendom  has  come  to  regard  the  body  as 
a  slave  to  be  scourged  and  chastised  and 
overworked  by  its  master,  the  mind.  If  so, 
the  slave  has  learned  to  make  vast  reprisals, 
as  our  nerve-racked  generation  shows.  The 
help  lies  in  the  promotion  of  the  body  to  its  real 
dignity — in  viewing  it  as  the  Greeks  did,  and 
honouring  it  as  they  did." 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION  65 

"  You  mean  by  a  return  to  a  life  like  theirs? " 

"History  never  moves  backward,  and  repro- 
ductions are  generally  bad  in  life  or  art.  No, 
my  idea  is  the  application  of  all  modem  science 
and  medical  knowledge  to  their  basic  theories. 
When  we  do  this  we  shall  have  beautiful  bodies 
and  symmetrical  souls,  calm  minds  unruffled  by 
nervous  disorders." 

The  man  stopped  taking  notes.  Looking  up 
at  Dilke  with  curious  eyes,  he  asked  anxiously, 
"Is  there  any  treatment  for  bad  temper  com- 
bined with  melancholia?" 

"  Bad  temper  and  melancholia?  That,  I  con- 
fess, is  complicated,  if  the  case  has  become 
chronic." 

"It  has." 

"Ah,  you  have  some  partictilar  case  in  your 
mind  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  I  have,"  the  young  man  admitted;  "I 
came  here  for  an  interview ;  but  if  you  could  help 
me  I'd  like  to  turn  it  into  a  professional  call." 

For  the  first  time  Dilke  began  to  feel  imcom- 
fortable. 

"  If  you  will  state  your  case "  he  began. 

"It  is  not  my  case,"  the  caller  interrupted; 
"it's  my  father's." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Dilke  to  himself. 
"Here  is  food  for  thought.  Apparently  our 
own  physical  ills  and  our  friends'  moral  ones 


66  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

weigh  upon  us  with  equal  heaviness."  Aloud, 
he  questioned:  "  What  are  his  symptoms ?  He 
is  suffering  from  depression  of  spirits,  you  say. 
Is  there  any  cause  for  it?" 

"None  that  I  know  of." 

"  Has  he  always  been  as  he  is  now?  " 

"  It  has  grown  upon  him,  and  of  late  it  seems 
to  hang  over  him  like  a  cloud  all  the  time." 

"What  does  he  enjoy  most?" 

"Nothing." 

" In  what  is  he  most  interested?" 

"Himself,"  the  young  man  answered  without 
sarcastic  intent.  "  He  says  that  if  we  were 
not  all  exaggeratedly  interested  in  ourselves 
life  would  be  unendurable." 

"Ah!  Schopenhauer,"  Dilke  commented  in- 
wardly, and  went  on :    "  And  about  his  temper  ? " 

"  Difficult,  to  say  the  least." 

"  Is  yoiu*  father  conscious  of  this  defect? " 

"Yes,  except  when  he  is  angry.  Then  he  is 
always  sure  that  it  is  the  other  person  who  is 
wrong.     Do  you  think  you  could  help  him?" 

^' Would  he  be  willing  to  see  me? " 

"  I  think  he  would.  I  am  quite  sure  he 
would.     Could  you  come  this  evening  at  eight  ? " 

Dilke   answered  gravely  that  he   should  be 

free  at  that  time,  and  pleased  to  call  upon ? 

He  paused  after  an  upward  inflection,  waiting 
for  the  name. 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION  67 

"Mr.  Eldridge,"  the  caller  responded;  "my 
name  is  Henry  Eldridge." 

Dilke  bowed.  There  was  something  about  the 
directness  of  this  young  man's  manner  which 
made  him  ashamed.  He  inwardly  cursed  the 
sign  in  the  window  and  himself  for  putting  it 
there.  As  Mr.  Eldridge  rose  to  go  he  drew 
out  his  purse. 

"No,  no,"  said  Dilke;  "do  not  speak  of  pay- 
ment !  .  I  prefer  to  make  fees  dependent  on  cure. 
If  I  can  help  your  father  it  will  be  time  to  dis- 
cuss the  reward." 

"Thank  you!"  responded  Mr.  Eldridge 
warmly.  "There  is  something  in  your  manner 
which  inspires  confidence,  though  I  confess  I 
came  here  in  a  spirit  of  scepticism." 

Dilke  blushed. 

"But  now  I  am  quite  convinced." 

Dilke  blushed  redder  still,  and  bowed  low  as 
he  opened  the  door  for  his  visitor's  departure. 

"Oh,"  said  Eldridge,  stopping  suddenly,  "I 
haven't  given  you  the  address." 

"To  be  sure — stupid  of  me  not  to  have 
asked." 

"Stupid  of  me  not  to  have  given  it.  By 
the  way,  is  there  a  drug  on  your  list  for 
stupidity?" 

"  Several,"  said  Dilke,  "but  the  effect  is  some- 
what evanescent." 


68  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Eldridge  laughed  and  closed  the  door,  leaving 
Dilke  plunged  in  perplexity. 

That  evening  found  the  young  physician 
at  the  door  of  a  wide  brick  house  on  North 
Washington  Square.  He  was  shown  into  the 
library. 

A  thoroughly  satisfactory  library  it  was  in 
proportion  and  furnishings.  Books  lined  the 
walls  in  solid  phalanxes:  Milton  richly  dight 
in  tree  calf,  Horace  Walpole  braving  it  in  scarlet, 
Jowett's  Plato  in  the  Oxford  blue,  and  Izaak 
Walton  clad  in  willow  green.  Easy  chairs  held 
out  broad  arms  of  invitation  and  latticed  win- 
dows were  softly  curtained  within.  It  should 
make  a  man  well  satisfied  with  himself  and  the 
world,  Dilke  thought,  to  live  in  such  a  place. 

Yet  the  owner,  at  the  present  moment, 
looked  anything  but  content.  He  was  sitting 
pen  in  hand  before  a  table  littered  with  papers. 
His  shaggy  eyebrows  were  drawn  together  in 
a  frown  and  he  did  not  look  up  at  the  visitor's 
entrance. 

Henry  Eldridge  came  forward  to  greet 
Dilke. 

"Father,  this  is  the  doctor,"  he  said,  turning 
toward  a  large  armchair  pushed  close  to  the 
study  table. 

"Let  the  doctor  go  to  the  devil!"  came  the 
answer  from  the  unseen  occupant  of  the  arm- 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION         69 

chair.  "I  tell  you  I  won't  see  your  infernal 
charlatan." 

Dilke  made  a  motion  as  if  to  withdraw;  but  a 
girl  stepped  from  behind  the  curtain. 

"My  sister,"  said  Eldridge.  Dilke  bowed. 
He  was  about  to  speak ;  but  the  girl  laid  a  warn- 
ing finger  on  her  lips.  "Let  me  talk  to  my 
father,"  she  whispered,  and  going  forward  she 
knelt  in  the  firelight  beside  the  armchair. 

Certainly  she  was  a  beautiful  girl.  Dilke  had 
time  to  take  in  the  fact  while  she  was  speaking 
in  a  low,  clear  tone.  But  that  was  not  the 
thought  which  was  uppermost  in  his  mind,  for 
he  perceived  with  an  excited  interest  that  she 
was  the  person  who  had  been  constantly  in  his 
thoughts  since   yesterday's  reception. 

"It  is  your  last  chance,  Papa.  Don't  throw 
it  away.  Think  how  much  happier  you  would 
be — ^how  much  happier  we  all  shoiild  be — if  you 
could  be  cured." 

Either  Joyce  did  not  recognise  Dilke,  or  she 
thought  it  wise  not  to  complicate  the  situation 
with  her  father  by  explanations. 

"It  isn't  I  who  need  curing,  it's  the  rest  of 
you." 

"  You  think  so,  but  suppose  Doctor  Dilke  here 
could  make  you  see  it  differently,  would  you  not 
be  glad?" 

"He  couldn't." 


70  CLAIMS  AND    COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Try  him." 

"  I  should  be  ashamed  to  be  the  dupe  of  such  a 
fraud." 

"  Try  him,"  was  all  the  girl  answered;  but  the 
appeal  in  her  tone  seemed  to  make  some  im- 
pression on  the  occupant  of  the  chair. 

"I'll  talk  to  him  for  five  minutes,"  the  voice 
said;  "five  minutes,  no  more.  Then  send  him 
packing." 

"Yes,  Papa,"  Miss  Eldridge  answered  with 
submission  in  her  tone,  but  triumph  in  her  eyes. 
"Doctor  Dilke,  will  you  please  come  forward? 
This  is  my  father,  Mr.  Eldridge." 

Dilke,  passing  around  the  angle  of  the  arm- 
chair, caught  sight  of  a  red  face  surmounted 
by  a  shock  of  white  hair. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want? " 

"  I  want  to  cure  you,"  Dilke  answered. 

"I  don't  need  curing." 

"Pardon  me,  but  you  do." 

Mr.  Eldridge  gave  one  questioning  look  up- 
ward. 

"Yes,"  Dilke  answered  to  the  glance,  "I 
should  like  to  try.  If  I  do  not  succeed  you  need 
pay  me  nothing." 

"That  sounds  fair  enough,"  assented  Mr. 
Eldridge,  who,  though  a  rich  man,  was  not  a 
reckless  one. 

"  You  inflict  much  useless  siiffering  on  yourself. " 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION  71 

Mr.  Eldridge  started  at  the  doctor's  words. 
Then  he  wheeled  around  in  his  chair  and  as- 
sumed a  combative  expression.  "You  are 
labouring  under  a  misunderstanding  there,"  he 
said.  "  I  do  not  inflict  suffering  on  myself,  but 
I  refuse  to  shut  my  eyes  to  the  suffering  on 
every  hand.  I  prefer  sight  to  blindness,  though 
it  involves  seeing  unpleasant  truths." 

"  The  trouble  is  that  you  see  only  half  truths, 
and  you  shut  your  eyes  to  the  other  half.  We 
cannot  see  the  whole  truth — we  could  not  take 
it  in  if  we  saw  it.  We  are  like  soldiers  hidden 
from  each  other  by  the  smoke  of  battle.  All 
that  we  can  do  is  to  stand  to  our  guns  or  lend 
a  hand  at  a  stretcher." 

Dilke  was  a  fool  to  argue  with  him,  and  he 
knew  it,  for  Mr.  Eldridge  had  what  the  French 
call  "  jolie  ratsonnante,"  when  a  man  can  give 
plausible  reasons  for  his  delusions.  Yet  Dilke 
could  not  resist  firing  one  more  shot. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  said,  "  I  call  a  soldier  who 
leaves  his  gun,  a  coward  and  a  deserter.  If  we 
do  oiu"  duty  by  our  fellow-men  we  shall  have 
little  time  left  for  speciilating  on  the  meaning 
of  life. 

"I  thought,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge,  "that  you 
proposed  to  treat  my  mental  state  through  the 
body.     I  did  not  expect  to  listen  to  a  sermon." 

Dilke  coloured.     He  had  quite  forgotten  his 


72  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

theories,  and  he  now  perceived  that  he  had  a 
shrewd  as  well  as  a  hot-tempered  adversary. 

"  I  was  about  to  open  the  subject  of  bodily 
treatment,"  he  answered,  drawing  out  his  tablet. 
"  I  shall  leave  a  prescription  if  Miss  Eldridge 
will  kindly  have  it  filled.  I  shall  leave  also  a 
guide  to  your  daily  habits  of  living;  if  you  do  not 
choose  to  follow  it  that  is  your  own  affair.  I 
can  see  that  you  are  suffering  from  a  nervous 
condition  which  renders  you  temporarily  irre- 
sponsible. It  will  be  my  aim  to  treat  this  with 
mild  sedatives,  removing  such  excitants  as 
coffee  and  the  various  forms  of  alcohol,  also 
limiting  the  supply  of  tobacco." 

"  I'll  take  what  I  damn  please!"  the  old  man 
burst  out. 

"Very  good,"  Dilke  replied;  "it  is  the  obstin- 
acy of  patients  which  supplies  the  income  of 
doctors.  Good-night ;  good-night,  Miss  Eldridge.  ' 

Joyce  Eldridge  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
stood  a  white  vision  framed  in  the  velvet 
curtains. 

"Your  father,  in  my  judgment,  is  suffering 
from  suppressed  gout,"  Dilke  said;  "but  I 
should  not  be  willing  to  make  that  diagnosis 
with  any  positiveness  without  further  investi- 
gation, which  I  thought  unwise  this  evening." 

"  You  will  see  him  again? " 

"  Yes,  if  you  wish,  and  if  he  consents.** 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION         73 

"To-morrow  night?" 

"To-morrow  night." 

As  Dilke  descended  the  steps  he  began  to  have 
uneasy  twinges  inflicted  by  his  professional 
conscience.  "A  charlatan,"  the  old  man  had 
called  him,  and  in  spite  of  the  moment's  instinc- 
tive resentment,  the  feeling  grew  that  he  had 
justified  the  epithet ;  and  yet — and  yet — he  was 
doing  no  harm;  indeed,  the  treatment  which  he 
had  prescribed  was  what  was  needed.  He  felt 
sure  of  it.  Why  quibble  about  the  name  under 
which  it  was  administered?  The  thing  that 
haunted  him  most  was  a  look  in  Miss  Eldridge's 
eyes.  What  did  it  signify?  Appeal  or  reproach? 
Or  was  there  underneath  a  glimmer  of  irony? 
Really,  there  should  be  no  room  for  such  a 
complication  of  expressions  in  a  single  pair  of 
eyes. 

And  it  was  thus  that  destiny  had  decreed  that 
he  was  to  meet  again  the  face  of  which  he  had 
dreamed  last  night.  He  turned  away  from  the 
thought  with  a  regret  too  poignant  to  dwell  upon. 
"His  luck,"  he  called  it,  as  if  there  were  any 
room  for  luck  in  a  world  ruled  by  the  iron  rod 
of  cause  and  effect,  of  character  and  results. 

All  the  way  home  those  eyes  followed  him. 
How  could  he  meet  them  again?  The  more 
he  thought  of  it  the  more  impossible  it  seemed, 
till  at  length  the  impossibility  mastered  him. 


74  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

He  could  fail.  He  could  starve.  Many  a  better 
man  had  done  both  before  him.  But  go  on 
with  this  fraud  he  could  not  and  woidd  not.  He 
would  never  go  near  the  house  again.  He 
would  write  a  letter.  No,  he  would  go  back 
and  tell  the  truth.  Nothing  less  than  that  he 
felt  would  set  his  troubled  conscience  at  rest, 
would  take  the  sting  out  of  that  veiled  ironical 
glance. 

Late  into  the  night  he  sat  before  the  graying 
embers  of  his  fire,  reviewing  the  experiences  of 
the  day.  He  spared  himself  nothing.  His 
worst  enemy  could  not  have  put  the  case  in 
stronger  language  than  he  did. 

When  he  could  no  longer  endure  the  torment 
of  humiliation  which  he  was  undergoing  he 
went  to  his  bookshelves  and  took  down  an  old 
leather-covered  volume  which  he  had  included 
in  the  few  that  he  had  brought  with  him  from 
Pieria.  He  could  not  sleep,  but  he  hoped  that  he 
could  find  distraction  from  the  prick  of  thought  in 
reading.  To  his  discomfiture  the  first  words  which 
greeted  his  eyes  were  these: 

"  I  hold  every  man  a  debtor  to  his  profession^ 
from  the  which,  as  men  of  course  do  seek  to 
receive  countenance  and  profit,  so  ought  they 
of  duty  to  endeavour  themselves,  by  way  of 
amends,  to  be  a  help  and  ornament  thereto." 

Dilke  closed  the  book  roughly  and  threw  it 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION         75 

down  on  the  table.  He  felt  as  if  conscience 
had  printed  the  letters  on  that  yellow  page, 
as  if  it  were  at  himself  that  the  words  were 
pointed. 

"  If  I  emerge  from  this  tangle  with  any  shreds 
of  self-respect  left,"  he  exclaimed  at  length, 
"  I  register  an  oath  in  Heaven  that  never  again, 
under  any  circumstances,  for  any  cause  will 
I  shadow  my  soul  with  a  lie." 

Before  daylight  the  placard  was  removed  from 
the  window.  With  a  sigh  of  relief  Dilke  tore 
it  from  top  to  bottom  and  thrust  it  into  the 
waste  basket,  where  he  sat  watching  it  with 
savage  satisfaction  while  the  dawn  broke  in  the 
east.  A  few  hours  later  he  turned  the  key 
in  his  office  door  and  went  out  into  the  street. 
His  first  errand  took  him  to  the  newspaper 
stand,  where  he  bought  a  copy  of  The  Morning 
Glory  and  stood  still  eagerly  scanning  its  pages 
up  and  down. 

The  malefactors  of  old  could  not  have  dreaded 
the  stocks  and  pillory  more  than  Anthony 
Dilke  feared  these  columns  of  black-and-white 
print.  It  was  being  forced  home  upon  him  that 
he  had  been  not  only  wrong  but  ridiculous,  and 
the  sense  of  absurdity  was  more  full  of  shame 
than  the  sense  of  moral  turpitude.  He  felt  the 
hot  colour  surge  over  his  face  as  he  searched 
the  columns.     At  last  he  folded  the  paper  with  a 


76  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

sigh  of  relief.  "  Pagan  Healing  "  did  not  appear 
in  any  headlines,  and  there  was  no  mention  of 
him  in  the  column,  "Along  the  Way."  Fate 
had  spared  him  that. 

So  far,  good.  The  next  problem  was  how 
to  kill  time.  He  walked  the  streets  till  he  was 
faint  and  weary.  The  wearier  the  better,  he 
told  himself,  since  it  left  him  less  energy  for 
reflection. 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  again  he  stood  in 
the  hallway  of  Mr.  Eldridge's  house. 

"Ask  Miss  Eldridge,"  he  said  to  the  butler, 
"  if  I  may  speak  with  her  here." 

When  he  caught  sight  of  the  girl's  white  dress 
sweeping  down  the  stairway  he  found  it  hard  to 
resist  the  temptation  to  turn  and  fly;  but  he 
held  the  impulse  in  check  and  lost  no  time  in 
grappling  with  the  situation. 

"Miss  Eldridge,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  see  your 
father  to-night — I  shall  never  see  him  again." 

"  I  don't  wonder  that  you  resented  his  words." 

"  It  is  not  that.  I  did  resent  them ;  I  resented 
them  because  they  were  true — I  am  a  charlatan. 
It  is  too  true  that  I,  a  trained  physician,  took  up 
this  humbug  because  I  could  not  see  my  way  to 
an  honest  practice  and  I  was  tired  of  waiting. 
Thank  Heaven,  I  have  not  soiled  my  hands  with 
any  ill-gotten  money  yet!  I  came  because  I 
must.     I  wanted  to  explain  it  to  you.     I  want 


A  DEBTOR  TO  HIS  PROFESSION  77 

you  to  tell  me  that  you  believe  I  am  trying  to  be 
an  honest  man." 

The  girl  hesitated.  "  I  do  believe  it,"  she  said 
after  a  moment.  "  Will  you  prove  your  honesty 
of  intention  by  waiting  here  and  letting  me  tell 
my  father  what  you  have  told  me  ? " 

Dilke  took  a  deep  breath.  "  Have  I  not  been 
humiliated  enough?"  he  asked. 

"If  you  are  in  earnest  you  will  be  willing," 
Miss  Eldridge  answered. 

"Go,  then!"  exclaimed  Dilke,  and  added 
imder  his  breath:  "After  all,  what  is  the  differ- 
ence, since  she  knows  it?" 

One  minute — two — three — elapsed  and  then 
Joyce  Eldridge  swept  radiant  into  the  hall. 
"  Come  up.' "  she  called.  "  My  father  says  his  eyes 
are  aching  for  the  sight  of  an  honest  man.  He 
has  had  the  best  day  that  he  has  known  in  years." 

"I  cannot  come,"  Dilke  answered  with  deep 
depression  in  his  tones.  "  I  cannot — I  should 
stand  in  his  presence  a  self-convicted  fraud." 

"Listen!"  whispered  Joyce,  "if  you  are  a 
fraud,  so  is  Henry.  He  is  not  a  reporter  on 
The  Morning  Glory.  He  never  was.  He  went 
into  your  office  because  he  thought  it  would  be 
amusing;  but  before  he  had  talked  with  you  five 
minutes  he  began  to  believe  in  you.  When  he 
came  home  I  scoffed  at  him.  I  told  him  that 
he  was  under  hypnotic  influence;   but  he  said. 


78  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

'Wait  and  see  for  yourself.'  I  did  wait — I  did 
see,  and  I  found  myself  feeling  as  he  did.  Only 
I  could  not  escape  the  conviction  that  there  was 
something  underneath  it  all,  I  don't  know  why, 
and  last  night  I  studied  you  while  you  were 
talking  with  my  father.  To-day  I  have  been 
haunted  by  the  impression  of  having  seen 
you  before  and  recently.  Did  I?  Were 
you ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Dilke  with  a  smile,  "you 
did,  and  I  was."  He  had  determined  with  a 
certain  fine  instinct  not  to  presvime  upon  the 
social  situation  unless  Miss  Eldridge  chose  to 
recognise  it;  but  it  pleased  him  to  find  himself 
remembered. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  Joyce  said;  "  I  was  afraid 
that  I  should  never  have  a  chance  to  tell  you 
how  much  I  appreciated  what  you  did  for  me 
the  other  day — I  must  not  stop  to  do  it  now, 
for  papa  will  be  growing  impatient." 

"But " 

"No  'buts.'     Come!" 

And  still  smiling,  she  led  the  way  to  the 
library. 


CHAPTER  V 
The  Point  of  View 

The  unreasonable  rule  the  world.  A  violent 
temper  confers  social  importance  upon  its  pos- 
sessor. Those  around  him  are  so  well  pleased  to 
escape  the  scorpion  whip  which  they  see  wielded 
on  others  that  they  fly  to  do  his  bidding  and 
accord  a  deference  withheld  from  men  of  greater 
powers  and  milder  manners. 

To  be  singled  out  by  Mr.  Eldridge  was  gen- 
erally recognised  as  a  badge  of  distinction.  To 
be  his  trusted  adviser  was  equivalent  to  a  blue 
ribbon,  and  Dilke  had  won  it.  The  choleric 
banker  proved  a  valiant  trumpet  blower.  He 
took  pride  in  his  physical  improvement,  and 
ascribed  it  all  to  the  unknown  doctor  whom  he 
had  discovered.  In  a  sense  he  regarded  it  as  a 
tribute  to  his  own  shrewdness,  as  if  stocks  which 
he  had  bought  at  a  low  price  had  suddenly  risen 
in  value. 

Dilke's  practice  throve  apace.  Within  a 
month  he  had  on  his  list  of  patients  two  excellent 
families,  one  including  four  children  and  the 
other  a  pair  of  twins.     Dilke  carried  the  twins 

79 


80  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

successfully  through  a  siege  of  diphtheria  and 
the  fame  of  him  went  abroad. 

His  next  patient  was  an  old  lady,  who  was 
willing  to  pay  a  high  price  for  the  privilege  of 
talking  of  her  symptoms,  but  refused  to  take 
any  medicine.  She  improved  steadily  and  spoke 
in  high  terms  of  her  physician  to  all  her  acquaint- 
ances. 

This  lady  was  Mrs.  Fenwick,  a  sister-in-law 
of  Mr.  Eldridge,  and  much  loved  by  his  daugh- 
ter, to  whom  she  had  almost  taken  the  place  of  a 
mother. 

Everything  about  Mrs.  Fenwick  was  subdued 
and  mellow.  The  laces  which  clung  about  her 
throat  and  fell  over  her  blue-veined  hands 
owned  in  their  yellow  tint  to  the  effect  of  age, 
and  she  saw  no  reason  why  she  should  be  more 
reluctant  than  they  to  grow  old.  She  felt  no 
sympathy  with  that  pitiful  pseudo-youth  which 
strives,  by  gilding  Time's  hour  glass,  to  stop  the 
running  of  its  sands. 

She  had  been  a  widow  for  thirty  years,  and  in 
all  those  three  decades  she  had  never  altered  the 
fashion  of  her  hairdressing.  The  locks  which 
had  once  waved  brownly  now  waved  grayly 
from  either  side  of  a  widening  part,  and  shadowed 
the  wrinkles  which  age  had  engraved  in  delicate 
copperplate  lines  across  her  forehead. 

Her  bearing  was  marked  by  a  deliberation,  a 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  81 

distinction  which  claimed  nothing  and  assumed 
everything.  When  she  entered  a  room  the 
gathering  which  had  been  an  agglomeration  of 
individuals  became  society. 

Her  one  passion  was  for  Joyce.  For  Henry 
she  entertained  a  quiet  contempt  as  a  scion  of 
the  Eldridge  stock;  but  Joyce  showed  her  old 
Huguenot  blood,  and  to  her  Mrs.  Fenwick  de- 
lighted to  repeat  the  family  traditions  of  her 
youth. 

At  one  time,  soon  after  the  death  of  his  wife, 
Mr.  Eldridge  had  asked  Mrs.  Fenwick  to  take 
charge  of  his  household ;  but  the  experiment  had 
been  a  failure.  Mr.  Eldridge  discovered  that 
her  companionship  imposed  irksome  limitations 
on  his  speech  and  conduct.  Mrs.  Fenwick  had 
associated  all  her  life  with  men  who  made  man- 
ner the  vehicle  of  respect,  and  she  was  accus- 
tomed to  a  certain  homage  which  was  like  the 
dried  rose  leaves  of  sentiment.  Naturally  she 
showed  surprise  and  disapproval  at  the  treat- 
ment which  she  received  at  the  hands  of  her 
brother-in-law. 

"Martin,"  she  said  on  one  occasion,  "I  will 
leave  the  room  till  you  recover  yourself,"  and 
she  swept  up  the  stairs  to  be  seen  no  more  that 
day. 

A  year  later  she  had  moved  to  the  house  in 
Tenth  Street  which  had  been  her  home  since 


82  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

then.  There  Dilke  visited  her,  prescribed  for 
her  symptoms,  and  hstened  to  her  talk  of  men 
and  things.  She  Hked  the  young  physician,  and 
from  the  beginning  showed  him  every  mark  of 
her  favour.  She  criticised  him  to  his  face  and 
praised  him  behind  his  back.  She  also  instilled 
many  maxims  of  worldly  wisdom,  which  Dilke 
ignored  at  the  time  and  acted  upon  later.  In  a 
friendship  between  a  young  man  and  an  older 
woman  the  former  receives  more  than  he  gives. 
A  wide  experience  of  life  is  at  his  service,  and  he 
learns  much  of  the  peculiarities  of  younger 
women,  which  he  might  never  discover  for  him- 
self. 

Mrs.  Fenwick's  good  will  played  an  important 
part  in  Dilke's  professional  advancement.  In 
six  months  his  practice  was  beginning  to  rest  on 
a  solid  basis,  when  to  his  vexation  Mr.  Eldridge 
decided  to  go  abroad  with  his  daughter,  and 
requested  Dilke  to  accompany  him  as  his  phy- 
sician. This  trip  was  exactly  what  Dilke  him- 
self had  recommended  as  the  best  cure  for  Mr. 
Eldridge 's  morbid  habit  of  mind  and  the  best 
preparation  for  a  return  to  active  business  life, 
which  he  was  prepared  to  urge  upon  his  patient 
later;  but  he  was  far  from  pleased  to  be  involved 
in  the  plan  himself.  In  the  first  place,  he 
realised  that  a  medical  practice  is  easily  lost;  in 
the  second  place,  he  disliked  the  attitude  of 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  83 

semi-dependence;  and  in  the  third  place,  he 
feared  the  months  of  close  association  with 
Joyce  Eldridge  which  would  be  forced  upon 
him. 

He  had  never  recovered  from  a  certain  em- 
barrassment in  their  relations,  due  to  a  con- 
sciousness that  she  had  been  a  witness  to  a  phase 
of  his  career  on  which  he  looked  back  with  hor- 
ror. A  man  of  sensitive  conscience  regards  a 
lapse  from  professional  ethics  as  more  heinous 
than  any  other,  and  Dilke  felt  that  all  the  for- 
giveness which  could  be  meted  out  to  him  from 
outside  sources  would  never  enable  him  to  for- 
give himself.  Moreover,  he  could  not  rid  him- 
self of  a  feeling  that  forgiveness  did  not  imply 
respect,  and  that  in  Joyce  Eldridge 's  mind  there 
must  always  be  a  lurking  sense  that  he  had  been 
tried  in  the  balance  and  found  wanting. 

He  therefore  strove  in  every  way  to  dissuade 
Mr.  Eldridge  from  the  plan,  to  recommend 
another  physician,  to  urge  him  to  go  without 
any,  and  throw  himself  on  his  own  moral 
strength,  to  test  the  power  of  his  newly  made 
good  resolutions. 

Mr.  Eldridge,  however,  would  take  no  denial. 
His  dependence  on  his  new-found  physician  was 
almost  pathetic,  and  gratitude  demanded  that 
Dilke  should  accede  to  his  request.  In  the  end 
Dilke  accepted,  and  sat  down  to  write  a  dutiful 


84  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

letter  to  his  mother  informing  her  of  his  plans. 
It  is  wonderful  how  much  truth  can  be  sup- 
pressed in  an  affectionate  letter  from  a  devoted 
son.  Many  interesting  episodes  are  to  be  looked 
for  between  the  lines  rather  than  on  them,  and, 
indeed,  all  letters  are  written  in  sympathetic 
ink,  only  to  be  made  legible  by  exposure  to  the 
candle  of  comprehension. 

Dilke  found  it  exceedingly  difficult  to  write 
naturally  to  his  mother.  He  recognised  that 
to  her  he  was  still  a  boy,  and  that  her  feelings 
were  a  little  hurt  by  any  development  of  inde- 
pendent manhood.  He  could  have  asked  no 
sacrifice  to  which  she  would  not  joyfully  have 
assented ;  but  the  fact  that  he  had  outgrown  the 
need  of  her  sacrifices  was  hard  for  her  to  bear, 
and  her  son  endeavoured  to  suppress  it. 

The  field  of  their  common  interests,  narrow  at 
the  beginning,  was  steadily  growing  narrower, 
and  the  subject  matter  of  their  correspondence 
was  "made  ground."  Intellectual  congeniality 
preserves  affection  between  mother  and  son  in 
spite  of  the  lack  of  temperamental  likeness ;  but 
without  one  of  these  bonds  the  son's  affection 
comes  to  be  no  more  than  the  tenderness  re- 
flected from  days  gone  by,  when  love  was  an 
instinct  and  not  an  emotion  capable  of  analysis. 

If  Anthony  had  any  feeling  of  this  kind  he 
never  admitted  it  to  himself.     There  are  certain 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  85 

emotions  which  it  would  be  impiety  to  inspect 
too  closely.  He  simply  felt  that  he  understood 
his  mother  and  that  she  did  not  imderstand  him. 
In  this  he  was  not  wholly  right,  since  affection, 
as  well  as  intellect,  has  its  insight. 

As  Anthony  seated  himself  to  compose  his 
letter,  he  felt  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
make  Mrs,  Dilke  comprehend  his  perplexities,  so 
he  took  refuge  in  assurances  of  devotion  and 
of  regret  that  he  was  not  to  spend  his  simimer 
at  home.     He  wrote  like  a  schoolboy: 

"Dearest  Mother: 

"I  had  hoped  to  run  out  to  Pieria  for  a  little  visit 
with  you  this  summer.  My  winter  has  not  been  so  very 
hard  worked  as  you  have  been  thinking,  and  I  am 
feeling  well  and  not  at  all  exhausted  by  my  labours. 
Still  I  should  like  a  vacation,  and  especially  a  vacation 
spent  with  you  in  the  little  green  sitting  room  at  home. 
But  I  fear  it  is  not  to  be.  One  of  my  first  patients  and 
patrons  here  was  Mr.  Eldridge,  a  rich  banker,  who  has 
decided  to  go  abroad  for  six  months,  and  has  insisted  so 
strongly  upon  my  accompanying  him  that  it  seemed 
ungrateful  to  refuse,  and  accordingly  our  passage  is 
booked  for  next  week.  It  is  a  disappointment  to  me  in 
many  ways;  but  after  all,  it  will  be  an  opportunity  to 
see  the  world,  such  as  does  not  often  come  in  a  man's 
way,  so  I  am  sure  you  will  agree  with  me  that  I  was 
right  in  accepting. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  write  to  me  often  and  tell  me 
how  life  in  Pieria  is  coming  on;  whether  Doctor  Macas- 
sar's sermons  are  as  tedious  as  ever;  whether  Mr.  Cantor 


86  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

still  strides  up  and  down  Main  Street  as  if  he  owned  it, 
and  whether  the  turmoil  over  the  library  has  come  to 
an  end.  I  suppose  but  for  that  imbroglio  I  should  be 
administering  pills  and  potions  to  the  Macassars  and 
Cantors  to-day,  instead  of  tugging  and  striving  to  make 
myself  known  here  in  New  York.  I  feel  that  you  were 
right,  however,  as  you  generally  are,  in  pushing  me  out 
into  the  world,  and  I  shall  hope  to  give  a  good  account 
of  myself  later.  I  ought  to  do  so  if  only  to  justify  all 
your  sacrifices  for  me. 

"  Your  affectionate  son, 

"Anthony  Dilke. 

"P.  S. — I  forgot  to  mention  that  Mr.  Eldridge's 
daughter  is  to  make  one  of  the  party.  In  some  respects 
this  will  be  pleasanter,  in  others  not  so  pleasant.  But 
it  will  not  make  much  difference  to  me,  as  I  shall  see 
little  of  her,  my  attention  being  devoted  to  her  father." 

The  jaunty  view  of  the  case  which  Dilke  set 
forth  for  his  mother's  benefit,  however  it  may 
have  impressed  her,  did  not  for  a  moment  deceive 
the  writer.  He  knew  that  danger  lurked  in  his 
acceptance  of  Mr.  Eldridge's  proposition — the 
greatest  of  dangers  in  the  sentimental  world,  the 
danger  of  propinquity. 

Joyce  Eldridge  was  the  type  of  girl  most  to 
be  feared.  Her  face  was  like  that  "intimate 
country  "  which  the  French  artists  love  to  paint. 
Without  regular  features  or  striking  colouring, 
it  had  a  trick  of  smiling  its  way  into  the  hearts 
of  those  who  saw  it  often,  while  the  appeal  of 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  87 

the  eyes  from  under  drooping  lids  was  something 
that  one  learned  to  look  for,  and  then  to  forget 
to  turn  away. 

Her  manner  was  tinged  with  pride,  and  a  cer- 
tain aloofness  which  melted  now  and  then  into 
an  entrancing  moment  of  intimacy  only  to  be 
swiftly  glazed  again  with  a  film  of  reserve. 
Dilke  was  puzzled  to  know  how  much  of  this 
was  to  be  attributed  to  shyness.  It  had  long 
been  his  business  to  study  the  curious  symptoms 
of  shyness,  which  he  regarded  as  almost  a  dis- 
ease with  a  pathology  of  its  own — he  had  seen 
it  where  it  was  least  suspected,  masquerading  in 
the  guise  of  assurance  or  hiding  behind  elabo- 
rately raised  barriers  of  pride. 

He  had  come  to  recognise  it  in  all  its  forms, 
from  the  bashfulness  associated  with  dimpling 
blushes  to  that  convulsion  of  the  sotil  which 
sends  the  colour  in  hot  waves  flooding  up  to  the 
hair,  which  tumbles  out  incoherent  half-finished 
sentences,  which  drives  its  victim  on  to  say  those 
things  which  he  ought  not  to  have  said,  and 
grips  him  by  the  throat  to  choke  the  utterance 
of  things  which  he  would  give  his  soul  to  say. 

In  Dilke's  study  of  shyness  he  had  learned 
something  of  its  treatment  also.  He  had  learned 
that  the  best  way  of  meeting  it  was  by  a  stolid 
repose  of  manner,  which  gave  time  for  recovery 
and  a  sense  that  nothing  was  expected. 


88  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

On  one  thing  he  resolved  in  connection  with 
this  European  expedition,  to  arm  himself  with  a 
manner  of  cast-iron  and  never  to  drop  the  role 
of  professional  adviser.  To  do  so  would  be  fatal. 
Mr.  Eldridge's  physician  he  was,  and  such  he 
would  remain ;  but  he  found  his  part  a  difficult  one. 

Already  Dilke  felt  the  spell  of  Joyce's  person- 
ality upon  him ;  already  he  found  his  eyes  invol- 
untarily seeking  her  when  she  entered  a  room. 
His  nerves  would  quiver,  his  cheeks  flush.  Then 
he  would  grasp  at  his  self-control  and,  forbidding 
himself  speech  with  her,  would  gloom  apart  like 
an  owl. 

This  glooming  habit  of  Dilke 's  had  a  distinct 
charm  for  some  people.  At  college  a  Dilke  cult 
had  arisen,  composed  of  men  who  had  discovered 
that  he  was  deep.  It  is  a  fortunate  thing  for  a 
man  to  be  called  "deep."  If  he  be  proclaimed 
witty  or  charming  he  may  be  called  upon  to 
justify  the  claim  by  producing  wit  or  charm; 
but  to  be  deep  he  need  only  look  out  at  the 
world  from  a  pair  of  pensive  eyes.  Speech 
might  spoil  the  effect;  but  silence  is  a  loyal 
keeper  of  reputation. 

How  well  Dilke  succeeded  in  the  concealment 
of  his  sentiments  we  may  infer  from  certain 
comments  in  a  letter  which  Joyce  Eldridge 
wrote  from  London  to  her  aimt,  Mrs.  Fen- 
wick. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  89 

"'How  do  you  like  your  doctor  on  further  acquaint- 
ance ? '  you  ask.  My  dear  aunt,  there  is  not  any  further 
acquaintance  on  which  to  Hke  him.  We  meet  two  or 
three  times  a  day  at  meals,  spend  our  evenings  together, 
either  at  home  or  at  the  theatre,  and  I  give  you  my 
word  that  I  know  no  more  about  him  than  on  the  first 
evening  on  which  I  saw  him.  He  is  as  impersonal  as 
an  editorial  in  the  Times.  He  has  views,  but  no  senti- 
ments. 

"My  mind  finds  him  extremely  useful,  and  I  expect 
to  surprise  you  by  the  extent  and  variety  of  my  misin- 
formation, for  though  the  information  which  Mr.  Dilke 
imparts  is  quite  correct  when  it  issues  from  his  lips,  it 
gains  a  queer  twist  in  passing  through  the  medium  of  my 
mentality,  and  nothing  annoys  him  more  than  to  have 
me  quote  him.  He  says  that  it  is  bad  enough  to  be 
responsible  for  the  things  which  he  does  say,  and  too 
much  to  be  charged  with  the  things  which  I  say  that  he 
said. 

"  As  for  papa,  he  does  not  know  whether  it  is  a  pleasant 
day  until  he  has  asked  the  doctor  and  received  his  per- 
mission to  have  an  opinion.  This  simplifies  my  diffi- 
culties wonderfully,  since  by  going  to  Doctor  Dilke 
first  I  can  almost  always  carry  any  point  with  papa. 
Doctor  Dilke's  influence  is  really  wonderful,  the 
result,  I  fancy,  of  the  power  of  a  strong  will  and  an 
equable  tem].)er  over  a  capricious  will,  and — well,  I 
need  not  describe  papa's  temper  to  you." 

From  this  it  will  be  seen  that  Dilke's  self- 
control  was  as  yet  to  be  trusted,  and  while  the 
Eldridges  were  in  the  great  cities  his  problem 
was   comparatively   simple.     In   London   their 


90  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

days  were  filled  with  sightseeing,  their  evenings 
with  objective  amusements.  In  Paris  there 
was  even  less  time  and  opportunity  for  intimate 
association,  for  Madame  du  Pont  was  there, 
and  Joyce  found  her  both  demanding  and 
absorbing. 

Madame  Emilie  du  Pont,  who  before  her 
marriage  with  a  Frenchman  had  spelled  her 
name  with  a  y,  was  a  cousin  of  Joyce  Eldridge 
and  several  years  older  than  she.  There  were 
people  who  prided  themselves  on  finding  her 
beautiful,  and  who  enjoyed  the  surprise  which 
the  announcement  caused  in  others.  She  had 
red  hair  and  green  eyes,  a  delicate  nose,  a  fault- 
less complexion,  a  mouth  with  liberal  curves 
and  a  wide  range  of  emotional  expression. 

She  was  the  widow  of  M.  Caravel  du  Pont,  at 
one  time  one  of  the  Secretaries  of  Legation  in 
Washington.  In  the  opinion  of  Madame  du 
Pont's  friends,  nothing  in  her  husband's  life  be- 
came him  so  well  as  his  leaving  of  it;  but  to 
the  world  his  widow  remained  suitably  regretful, 
unconsoled  if  not  inconsolable. 

Her  income  was  small,  but  expended  with  a 
judgment  which  made  it  adequate.  She  had 
taken  a  tiny  apartment  in  Paris,  and  furnished 
it  with  a  smartness  which  put  mansions  to  shame. 
The  frills  on  her  muslin  curtains  were  as  fresh  as 
the  caps  of  her  maids,  and  the  choice  bits  of  old 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  91 

French  furniture  gave  an  air  of  importance  to 
the  simphcity  around  them. 

She  had  lately  learned  of  the  death  of  her 
husband's  brother  and  was  preparing  a  suitable 
wardrobe  of  mouming-in-law — the  black  alle- 
viated with  white,  which  fitly  symbolises  the 
subdued  grief  which  some  women  feel  for  the 
death  of  their  husbands'  relatives. 

This  afternoon  she  was  seated  in  a  low  chair 
before  her  mirror,  inspecting  the  reflected  effect 
of  a  small  black  toque,  perched  upon  the  waves 
of  her  red  hair. 

Her  thoughts,  if  they  could  have  been  regis- 
tered, would  have  run  in  parentheses,  and  have 
distributed  themselves  somewhat  in  this  fashion. 

"Poor  Jacques!" 

("A  wide  hat  would  have  been  more  becom- 
ing.") 

"  Cut  off  so  in  the  prime  of  life." 

("That  bow  is  at  least  an  inch  too  high.") 

"  I  wonder  how  he  left  his  family  provided 
for." 

("  Perhaps  if  I  pinch  it  in  over  the  ear  it  will 
look  better.") 

"What  a  mystery  death  is!" 

("Pshaw!  The  best  way  will  be  to  rip  the 
whole  thing  to  pieces  and  make  it  over.") 

Madame  du  Pont  drew  out  her  work  basket, 
and  taking  up  her  scissors,  began  to  snip  vigor- 


92  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ously  at  the  trimming  of  the  toque,  when  a 
knock  at  the  door  startled  her.  Half  guiltily 
she  thrust  bonnet  and  scissors  into  the 
drawer  before  giving  the  maid  permission  to 
enter. 

"Ask  Miss  Eldridge  to  come  in  here,"  she 
said  after  reading  the  card  on  the  tray.  A 
moment  later  Joyce  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  You  don't  mind  my  coming,  dear,  do  you?" 
Joyce  began  rather  timidly. 

"  No,  indeed !  It  is  a  relief  to  see  someone.  I 
never  did  believe  in  shutting  one's  self  up  after 
a  trouble  of  any  kind.  It  is  then  that  one  has 
most  need  of  distraction,  and  there  is  no  dis- 
traction like  the  society  of  friends.  Lay  aside 
your  wraps  and  sit  down  in  this  comer  by  the 
window.     I  will  have  tea  served  here." 

"Thank  you.  I  wish  I  had  your  gift  for 
making  a  place  attractive.  Papa  likes  every- 
thing heavy — furniture,  dinners,  conversation — 
everything." 

Madame  du  Pont  drew  out  a  cigarette  case 
and  held  it  out  to  Joyce,  who  declined. 

'*  Bien,  mon  enfant!  Reserve  some  pleasures 
for  the  years  to  come.  Besides,  it  is  a  habit  that 
grows  on  one.     *  Qui  a  bu  boira.'  " 

Joyce  disapproved  of  cigarettes  and  shuddered 
to  think  what  Mrs.  Fenwick  would  say  of  them; 
but  she  knew  that  Emilie  would  regard  her 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  93 

scruples  as  provincial,  so  she  suppressed  them 
and  made  no  comment. 

Emilie  du  Pont  sat  looking  at  her  cousin  for 
some  time  in  silence,  through  a  thin,  curling 
line  of  smoke.     Then  she  said  suddenly: 

"Why  don't  you  marry  someone,  Joyce?" 

The  easy  chairs  were  placed  in  a  contiguity 
admirably  adapted  for  confidences;  but  Joyce 
had  none  to  offer. 

She  only  repeated: 

"Marry?  I  am  not  in  love  with  anyone, 
Emilie." 

"  Oh,  that  is  a  minor  consideration.  My  dear 
Joyce,  love  is  glamour,  atmosphere.  It  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  man  himself.  If  it  had, 
all  girls  would  be  in  love  with  the  same  man  and 
the  results  would  be  disastrous." 

Joyce  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  drew  a 
long  breath. 

"What  a  gambler's  life  a  girl's  is!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  She  is  told  that  the  only  happiness  for 
a  woman  lies  in  marriage ;  but  that  she  must  not 
marry  without  meeting  her  ideal,  and  that  if 
she  does  meet  him  she  must  not  make  a  single 
forward  step,  but  must  remain  entirely  passive 
on  the  chance  that  he  may  rush  to  claim 
her.  Really,  the  outlook  seems  decidedly  pre- 
carious." 

"  Some  girls  demand  so  much  that  they  make 


94  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

the  outlook  precarious,"  Madame  du  Pont 
observed  with  intentional  emphasis. 

"  Don't  you  know  any  interesting  men — really 
interesting — interesting  in  themselves,  I  mean?" 

"  Yes,  dozens;  but  they  are  not  men  to  marry, 
especially  not  men  for  you  to  marry.  You 
never  covld  love  or  at  least  continue  to  love  a 
man  whom  you  did  not  respect.  The  very 
qualities  like  irresponsibility  and  a  sort  of 
vagabond  experience  of  many  phases  of  life 
would  be  anything  but  attractive  in  marriage." 

"I  think,"  said  Joyce,  "that  I  should  like  to 
marry  a  vagabond.  I  am  so  tired  of  stationary 
respectability." 

"There  are  two  requisites  in  a  husband," 
said  Madame  du  Pont.  "  He  must  be  ambitious, 
and  he  must  be  placed." 

"Placed?" 

"Yes.  It  is  not  agreeable  to  go  about  ex- 
plaining one's  husband.  It  is  convenient  to 
have  his  name  carry  his  genealogy." 

"Do  you  consider  me  'placed,'  Emelie?" 
Joyce  asked,  with  mingled  amusement  and 
anxiety  in  her  tone. 

"  If  not  placed,  at  least  placeable,"  Madame  du 
Pont  replied.  "Everything  will  depend  upon 
your  marriage.  You  would  easily  degenerate 
into  domesticity." 

Joyce  laughed. 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  95 

"How  is  your  father  now?"  Madame  du 
Pont  asked,  thinking  perhaps  that  Joyce  was 
treating  a  serious  subject  too  lightly. 

"Better,  thank  you.  Much  better.  He  can 
even  discuss  the  tariff  without  excitement.  His 
new  physician  has  done  wonders  for  him." 

"And  you  see  this  doctor  every  day,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Of  course." 

"Is  he  good  looking? " 

"  Decidedly,  I  should  say." 

"Clever?" 

"  His  success  with  papa  shows  that." 

"What  about  his  manners?" 

"I  never  noticed  anything  about  them." 

"Then  they  are  excellent,  depend  upon  it. 
Joyce " 

"Whatisit,  Emilie?" 

"  You  are  not  in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with 
this  young  doctor?" 

"He  came  from  Pieria." 

Madame  du  Pont  smiled. 

"Pieria?"  she  questioned,  with  arched  eye- 
brows. "  And  pray,  where  is  Pieria?  Your  doc- 
tor is  not  a  naturalised  Greek,  I  suppose." 

"  No,  no,  of  course  not.  Pieria  is  a  small 
Western  town  in  America.  It  is  a  manufactur- 
ing town  at  the  junction  of  two  railroads,  I 
was  there  once  with  papa.     He  liked  it." 


96  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"And  you  did  not?" 

"Like  it?  I  shoiild  say  not.  It  was  like  an 
overgrown  boy  with  nothing  but  its  size  to  boast 
of,  all  factories  and  smart,  upstart  houses.  We 
have  plenty  of  places  like  it ;  but  I  dare  say  you 
have  had  time  to  forget  them  over  here." 

"Ah!  in  a  foreign  land  one  remembers  only 
the  pleasant  things  of  home." 

Madame  du  Pont  uttered  this  highly  creditable 
little  sentiment  with  an  appropriate  sigh;  but 
in  the  next  breath  she  questioned : 

"  Can  no  possible  good  come  out  of  Pieria?  " 

"  Not  for  one  who  knows  Pieria  as  well  as  I 
do.  I  assure  you,  Emilie,  if  I  ever  do  fall  in 
love,  it  will  be  with  a  man  from  the  steppes  of 
Asia,  or  Borneo  or  *  some  far-off  bright  Azore ' — 
a  man  with  a  mysterious  past." 

"Then,"  said  Madame  du  Pont,  "I  devoutly 
hope  that  you  will  never  fall  in  love.  But  about 
this  doctor.  What  is  his  name?  You  have 
mentioned  it,  but  I  forget." 

"Dilke— Anthony  Dilke." 

"Dilke?"  repeated  Madame  du  Pont  medita- 
tively. "  I  do  not  know  the  name.  If  he  were 
connected  with  the  English  Dilkes — ^but  one 
must  not  go  too  fast.  I  shall  invite  him  to 
dinner  with  you  and  Mr.  Newbold.  I  mean, 
by  the  way,  to  ask  your  father  to  let  Mr.  New- 
bold  paint  your  portrait.     There  will  be  plenty 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  97 

of  time  while  you  are  here  and  he  is  an  excellent 
artist.  I  have  been  to  his  studio  with  friends, 
and  I  like  his  pictures  exceedingly." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Emilie!  Not  for  speaking 
to  papa  about  the  portrait,  but  for  asking  Doctor 
Dilke." 

"Why  should  she  thank  me  if  she  feels  no 
interest  in  the  man?"  queried  Madame  du  Pont 
as  she  watched  the  girl.  She  liked  Joyce,  but 
she  was  irritated  by  her  lack  of  initiative.  She 
felt  that  her  cousin  was  drifting  through  life  in 
a  way  which  would  be  impossible  to  her  energetic 
temperament.  She  had  lived  long  enough  in 
France  to  believe  in  arranged  marriages,  and 
Mr.  Eldridge's  attitude  toward  his  daughter 
seemed  to  her  to  savour  of  criminal  negligence. 
Joyce's  beauty  properly  heralded  might  secure 
anybody,  and  she  cotild  not  see  her  drift  into 
an  alliance  with  a  nobody  without  an  effort  to 
save  her. 

It  was  an  odd  coincidence  that  at  the  very 
time  when  these  thoughts  were  burrowing  in 
Madame  du  Font's  mind,  Dilke  was  reading  a 
letter  from  his  mother,  hinting  at  the  same 
problem  from  a  widely  different  point  of  view. 

"I  have  just  had  a  call  from — whom  do  you  think? — 
from  Mrs.  Cantor,  who  has  taken  no  notice  of  me  since 
you  left  and  had  apparently  forgotten  my  existence. 
This  morning  she  came,  and  the  object  of  her  call  will 


OS  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

surprise  you  more  than  the  fact  of  her  coming.  It  was 
to  suggest  your  return  to  Pieria.  You  are  to  be  re- 
habihtated,  reinstated  and  presented  with  a  petition 
for  your  return  from  all  the  leading  citizens.  There! 
Isn't  that  a  surprise? 

"I  told  the  lady  that  I  was  very  doubtful  whether 
you  would  be  persuaded  to  come  back;  but  of  course  I 
did  not  presume  to  decide  for  you.  You  will  probably 
receive  the  testimonial  in  due  form,  and  then  can  decide 
for  yourself.  I  will  not  even  attempt  to  describe  the 
events  which  have  brought  about  this  amazing  change. 
I  would  rather  that  the  petition  should  speak  for  itself. 

"As  for  your  European  trip,  I  am  very  glad  that  this 
opportunity  has  come  to  you  after  your  hard-worked 
winter." 

(Dilke  grinned.) 

"It  will  give  you  sightseeing  without  expense,  and  I 
am  sure  it  is  a  great  opportunity  for  Mr.  Eldridge  to 
secure  such  a  doctor  as  you.  I  hope  he  pays  you  well 
for  it.  There  is  only  one  factor  in  the  case  which 
troubles  me,  and  that  is  the  daughter.  Mrs.  Cantor,  it 
seems,  has  heard  of  her  and  spoke  of  her  to  me.  Of 
course  you  will  be  thrown  with  her  a  great  deal,  and  I 
know  how  easy  it  is  for  a  young  man  to  be  entrapped." 

(Dilke  frowned,  and  made  a  motion  as  if  to 
tear  the  paper.  Then  he  thought  better  of  the 
matter  and  read  on.) 

"Perhaps  I  am  partial;  but  I  am  sure  that  any  girl 
whom  you  asked  would  marry  you,  and  I  am  so  anxious 
that  she  should  be  the  right  one,  sweet  tempered  and 


THE  POINT  OF  VIEW  99 

yielding  and  domestic,  and  one  who  will  make  you 
happy! 

"You  may  think  that  I  don't  know  the  world  because 

I  have  lived  all  my  life  in  Pieria;  but  I  have  seen  many 
wives,  and  I  have  seen  how  they  can  make  or  mar  their 
husbands'  careers.  No  matter  how  attractive  this 
Miss  Eldridge  may  be,  don't  commit  yourself!" 

At  this  point  Dilke's  exasperation  overcame 
his  iiHal  affection.  He  rose,  hghted  the  lamp 
and  held  the  letter  over  the  flame  till  it  was 
consumed  to  the  last  word.  As  his  eye  caught 
the  mirror  he  saw  his  face  reflected  there  blush- 
ing like  a  girl's.  Half  consciously  he  had  been 
asking  himself  all  the  while  he  was  reading 
what  Joyce  Eldridge  would  say  if  her  glance 
should  happen  to  fall  on  that  letter. 

"Heavens!"  exclaimed  Dilke,  "what  a  race 
of  cads  men  would  become  if  they  took  their 
mothers  too  seriously!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

PiERiA  Once  More 

In  spite  of  the  proverbial  assertion  of  the  con- 
trary, the  absent  are  sometimes  right,  and  as 
they  are  not  present  to  triumph  over  the  admis- 
sion, the  fact  is  the  more  readily  granted,  espe- 
cially when  it  involves  the  refutation  of  those 
near  at  hand,  whose  visible  humiliation  atones 
for  the  exaltation  of  people  at  a  distance. 

The  history  of  the  letter  which  caused  An- 
thony Dilke  such  vexation  and  sorely  strained 
his  filial  affection,  involved  causes  curiously  re- 
mote from  any  that  he  could  divine. 

Shortly  after  his  departure  Pieria  experienced 
a  change  of  heart.  As  time  went  on  the  advan- 
tages of  the  new  library  grew  familiar  and  there- 
fore less  striking,  while  the  disadvantages  of 
association  with  Jacob  Secor  became  more  and 
more  evident.  Ugly  rumours  which  had  peeped 
uncertainly  from  the  background  at  first,  now 
thrust  themselves  impudently  and  insistently 
forward,  and  by  their  very  ugliness  gained  a 
hearing  if  not  a  credence.  Gradually  the  library 
trustees  were  placed  on  the  defensive,  forced  to 

100 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  101 

explanations,  while  their  fellow- townsmen  who 
"would  not  play  false  and  yet  would  wrongly 
win,"  satisfied  their  consciences  by  using  the 
library  and  abusing  the  trustees. 

Presently  it  began  to  be  roundly  asserted 
that  Anthony  Dilke  had  voiced  the  moral  senti- 
ment of  the  community  when  he  insisted  upon 
a  direct  refusal  of  Secor's  beneficence.  Many 
business  men  were  sure  that  if  they  had  chanced 
to  be  on  the  Board  they  would  have  taken  their 
stand  with  Dilke ;  though  of  course  now  that  the 
matter  was  decided,  it  would  be  mere  folly  to 
refuse  to  make  use  of  the  library's  advantages. 
At  gratitude  to  the  giver  they  drew  the  line.  To 
acknowledge  the  debt  would  be  to  bow  the  knee 
to  Baal. 

Even  Doctor  Macassar  and  Mr.  Cantor  refused 
to  feel  grateful,  while  Mr.  Towns  never  passed 
the  building  without  a  muttered  imprecation. 
A  face  seemed  to  smile  at  him  with  malevolent 
irony  from  the  stones,  and  the  name  of  Secor 
glared  odiously  above  the  door. 

For  some  time  these  gentlemen  flattered  them- 
selves that  the  humiliation  of  the  dedication 
ceremonies  was  the  climax  of  their  discomfitiire ; 
but  they  were  soon  undeceived.  They  had  taken 
the  old  man  of  the  sea  on  their  shoulders  and  he 
was  not  to  be  shaken  off  so  easily. 

It  soon  transpired  that  Secor  had  bought  the 


102         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

largest  mills  in  Pieria,  intended  to  extend  their 
industries,  and  had  ordered  a  number  of  new 
cottages  for  workmen  erected  in  their  vicinity. 
A  little  later  it  appeared  that  he  had  purchased 
a  dwelling,  a  large  brick  house  with  white  pillars, 
commanding  the  finest  avenue  in  the  town. 
Then,  to  the  dismay  of  the  better  element  of 
Pierians,  it  was  announced  that  Mr.  Secor  in- 
tended to  take  up  his  residence  in  his  native 
town  preparatory  to  seeking  political  honours. 
Here  indeed  was  a  dilemma. 

Resentment  against  this  benefactor  of  the 
town  filled  the  air.  It  seemed  to  belch  in  smoke 
from  the  factory  chimneys,  to  ring  from  the 
church  bells,  above  all,  to  mutter  in  the  whisper 
which  followed  the  loosely  knit  figure,  with  its 
head  held  unduly  erect  and  the  face  with  its 
half -insolent,  half -patronising  smile.  This  smile 
said  as  plainly  as  words,  "I  have  bought  my 
place  and  I  mean  to  have  it." 

There  are  a  multitude  of  men  who,  if  they 
recognise  that  they  cannot  serve  God  and  Mam- 
mon at  the  same  time,  believe  that  they  can  do  it 
by  turns;  that  having  accumulated  a  com- 
fortable quantity  of  this  world's  goods  in  the  ser- 
vice of  Mammon,  they  may  return  to  the  safer 
and  more  respectable  task  of  serving  the  Lord, 
welcomed  back,  if  not  by  Him,  at  least 
by  His   deputies,   on   the  payment   of  tribute 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  103 

money  and  the  promise  of  activity  in  the 
Church. 

Many  such  were  now  found  to  apologise  for 
Secor,  and  to  hold  that  his  beneficence  should 
wipe  out  past  offences.  A  man  who  wishes 
to  secure  the  good  opinion  of  the  world  will 
be  far  more  particular  about  his  way  of  spending 
money  than  about  his  way  of  making  it.  Benevo- 
lence in  wealth  excuses  previous  crookedness  of 
dealing  and  blinds  the  public  to  the  obvious 
truth  that  honesty  is  the  only  foundation  for 
generosity. 

So  it  came  about  that  there  was  a  Secor  party 
and  an  anti-Secor  party.  With  Secor  or  against 
him  his  fellow-townsmen  must  range  themselves. 
The  Reverend  James  Macassar  and  Mr.  Cantor 
would  be  asked  to  address  meetings,  Mr.  Towns 
would  be  asked  to  act  as  treasurer  of  a  campaign 
fund.     Would  they  accept  or  refuse? 

In  this  perplexing  tangle  many  minds  turned 
toward  Anthony  Dilke,  and  many  were  the 
wishes  expressed  that  he  were  present  to  lead  the 
opposition.  He,  at  least,  was  free  to  act  as  his 
conscience  dictated,  to  oppose  a  candidate  whom 
he  thought  unfit  to  represent  the  citizens  of  his 
town  and  state. 

Time  went  on,  and  Secor  won  his  election  to 
Congress.  His  fellow-townsmen  rejoiced  with 
their  lips;  but  in  their  hearts  they  were  struck 


104         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

with  wrath  and  shame.  At  this  juncture  still 
another  factor  unexpectedly  asserted  itself  to 
help  the  popular  reaction  in  favour  of  Dilke. 
Winter  wore  away,  and  as  spring  came  on 
typhoid  fever  broke  out,  and  the  local  authori- 
ties and  physicians  showed  themselves  inade- 
quate to  cope  with  it.  The  water  supply  was 
investigated,  the  milk  tested,  and  still  the  fever 
gained  ground. 

New  victims  were  added  daily  to  the  list  of 
sufferers.  The  bank  president  was  ill.  Doctor 
Macassar's  daughter  died  and  was  buried  in  the 
trim  cemetery  with  heavy  iron  gates — gates 
calculated  to  inspire  a  certain  grim  mirth  in 
the  beholder,  since  the  only  enemy  whom  they 
could  be  supposed  to  shut  out  was  Death,  and 
he  drove  his  black-plumed  chariots  through 
them  without  even  stopping  to  pay  toll. 

One  day,  when  the  epidemic  was  still  growing, 
Mrs.  Towns,  a  withered  little  woman,  slave  of 
her  husband  and  children,  came  hastily  into 
the  house  of  her  sister,  Mrs.  Cantor.  According 
to  her  custom,  she  ran  upstairs  unannounced, 
to  find  Mrs.  Cantor  sitting  in  a  small  rocking 
chair  in  her  bedroom,  busily  at  work  drawing 
red  worsted  through  coffee  sacking,  with  fell 
intent  to  make  a  domestic  rug. 

It  was  generally  Mrs.  Towns  who  visited  and 
Mrs.  Cantor  who  was  visited.     This  was  partly 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  105 

because  Mrs.  Cantor,  being  a  large  body,  moved 
slowly,  and  partly  because  as  the  wife  of  Pieria's 
leading  citizen,  she  clung  to  certain  dignities 
which  must  be  respected  in  spite  of  family  ties. 

As  Mrs.  Towns  entered  the  room  out  of 
breath  from  the  haste  of  her  walk,  her  sister 
looked  up  anxiously. 

"Goodness  me,  Julia,  how  you  startled  me!" 
she  exclaimed.  "  I  wish  you  would  make  more 
noise  coming  up  the  stairs.  I  declare,  you 
look  queer.     Is  anything  the  matter? " 

"Yes,  there  is.     Tommy  is  sick." 

"I  am  not  at  all  surprised,"  interrupted  Mrs. 
Cantor,  drawing  out  a  long  thread  of  worsted 
and  doubling  it  through  the  eye  of  her  darning 
needle.  She  perceived  in  this  conversational 
opening  an  excellent  opportunity  for  a  long- 
deferred  lecture  on  hygiene,  and  would  not 
allow  the  talk  to  drift  away  till  it  had  been 
delivered. 

"I  must  tell  you,  Julia,"  she  said,  taking  off 
her  gold-bowed  spectacles  and  rubbing  them 
reflectively  with  the  coffee  sacking,  "  that  every- 
one has  been  talking  about  the  way  you  feed 
that  child — griddle  cakes  and  coffee  for  break- 
fast, and  Tommy  only  twelve  years  old !  Edward 
has  one  chop  and  a  potato  with  a  glass  of  milk, 
and  he  is  always  well." 

Mrs.  Towns  flushed.     ''My  cakes  never  hurt 


106         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

anybody,"  she  answered.  '  'They're  as  Hght  as 
Hght,  and  as  for  the  coffee,  perhaps  that  is  what 
makes  Tommy  stand  at  the  head  of  his  class." 

This  was  touching  a  sore  subject,  for  Ned 
Cantor  and  Tommy  Towns  were  rivals  for  scho- 
lastic honours  in  the  Pieria  high  school. 

"  Oh,  very  well! "  said  Mrs.  Cantor,  putting  on 
her  spectacles  again  and  resuming  her  work, 
as  if  the  subject  under  discussion  had  lost  all 
interest.  "If  you're  satisfied,  I  don't  know 
why  anyone  should  interfere.  I  thought  you 
said  that  Tommy  was  sick,  and  I  was  trying 
to  show  you  where  the  trouble  lay." 

Mrs.  Towns  rose,  though  she  had  scarcely 
seated  herself.  Her  under  lip  trembled  like  a 
squirrel's  as  she  said: 

"  I  guess  I'll  go  right  back  to  Tommy.  He  is 
very  poorly.  I  think  myself  he  has  the  fever, 
and  I  did  expect  my  own  sister " 

This  serious  view  of  the  matter  thawed  the 
ice  of  Mrs.  Cantor's  resentment,  and  family 
affection  flowed  freely. 

"You  sit  down,  Julia,  and  I'll  put  on  my 
things  and  go  right  back  with  you.  I'll  take 
poultices  and  rhubarb  and  soda.  If  it's  his  liver 
that's  upset,  these  will  soon  bring  him  round, 
and  even  if  it's  the — the — other  thing,  why 
he's  a  fine  tough  boy,  and  he'll  pull  thj-ough  and 
be  a  credit  to  us  all  yet." 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  107 

The  identification  of  interests  comforted  Mrs. 
Towns;  but  the  praise  of  Tommy  made  her 
anxious.  She  suspected  that  her  sister  was 
speaking  of  him  as  she  would  wish  to  have 
spoken  in  case  the  worst  happened.  Mrs. 
Cantor  had  never  been  loud  in  commendations 
of  her  nephew  before,  and  her  present  encomium 
seemed  a  bad  omen. 

"No,  thank  you,  Emma,"  Mrs.  Towns  an- 
swered, "  I  wouldn't  dare  give  Tommy  any 
medicine  till  Doctor  Patchen  comes.  He  said 
he'd  be  in  this  afternoon.  The  trouble  is,  I 
don't  have  much  confidence  in  him." 

"He's  the  best  there  is,  now  Doctor  Dilke 
is  gone." 

"That's  just  it.  Half  my  trouble  would  be 
over,  if  only  Doctor  Dilke  were  here." 

"Well,  he  isn't,"  Mrs.  Cantor  answered, 
shortly. 

Mrs.  Towns  had  no  courage  for  a  further  com- 
bat; but  she  ventured  timidly:  "Don't  you 
think  perhaps  he  would  come  back  if  he  were 
asked?" 

"Who's  going  to  ask  him?" 

"Why,  Thomas  was  talking  about  it  last 
night,  and  he  said  Doctor  Dilke  had  been  made 
a  scapegoat  when  really  he  was  right." 

"Thomas  may  speak  for  himself.  I  have 
not  heard  my  husband  say  anything  of  the  kind, 


108         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

though  he  thinks  things  turned  out  unfor- 
tunately. But,  as  he  says,  nobody  can  tell  how 
things  will  turn  out.  A  man  can  only  follow 
his  lights." 

"  Thomas  says  they  had  lights  enough ;  but  the 
only  one  they  followed  shone  on  a  pile  of  money." 

"Well,  well,  what  of  it?"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Cantor,  tired  of  hearing  the  exposition  of  her 
brother-in-law's  views,  which  she  regarded  as 
superfluous  if  not  impertinent,  when  offered  to 
one  living  in  daily  contact  with  a  greater 
luminary. 

"This  of  it!"  replied  her  sister,  drying  the 
flood  of  tears  which  had  threatened  to  submerge 
her  power  of  speech.  "  We  want  to  get  Doctor 
Dilke  to  come  back,  and  we  think  if  we  sent  a 
petition  signed  by  everyone  and  headed  by 
Doctor  Macassar,  he  would  come." 

"Would  he! "  observed  Mrs.  Cantor  grimly. 

"  I  believe  he  would,  and  I  want  you  to  go 
and  see  his  mother  and  ask  her  about  it." 

"  I  am  the  last  person " 

"  No,  you're  not.  You're  the  best  person. 
You  have  so  much  influence " 

Mrs,  Cantor  softened  perceptibly. 

"If  you  went,  Mrs.  Dilke  would  feel  that  it 
was  important." 

Mrs.  Cantor  softened  still  more,  and  her  sister 
pressed  the  advantage.     "  Yes,  Mrs.  Dilke  would 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  109 

feel  so  complimented  that  she  wotild  urge  it  on 
her  son,  and  he  cares  so  much  for  her  that  he 
would  come  just  to  please  her." 

"Well,  I'll  speak  to  John " 

"  Don't  stop  to  speak  to  John.  Go  this  morn- 
ing. We  need  Doctor  Dilke  right  away,  and  it 
all  rests  with  you." 

The  sense  of  importance  was  dear  to  Mrs. 
Cantor's  soul,  and  the  suggestion  of  responsi- 
bility distinctly  gratified  her. 

"Well,  then,"  she  said,  "you  go  back  to 
Tommy  and  I  will  come  roimd  after  I've  been  to 
call  on  Mrs.  Dilke. 

Mrs.  Towns  brightened  at  once.  "Well, 
I  must  say,  sister,  your  actions  are  real 
kind." 

This  Parthian  arrow  dipped  in  poisoned  balm, 
Mrs.  Towns  shot  backward  as  she  ran  down 
stairs  with  the  softness  to  which  Mrs.  Cantor 
objected.  As  soon  as  her  visitor  had  departed, 
Mrs.  Cantor  proceeded  to  array  herself  in  her 
best  attire,  a  trailing  black  grenadine  gown,  and 
a  black  hat  with  a  long  white  feather  which  was 
the  admiration  of  the  feminine  half  of  Doctor 
Macassar's  congregation  on  Sundays.  She  de- 
cided not  to  wait  for  her  carriage,  but  to  walk 
the  few  blocks  which  separated  her  house  from 
Mrs.  Dilke's.  No  sooner  had  she  set  out  than 
she  regretted  her  decision,  for  the  asphalt  pave- 


110         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ment  was  hot  to  her  feet  and  the  sun  made  her 
face  very  red  and  uncomfortable. 

Mrs.  Dilke's  sitting  room  was  gratefully  cool 
after  the  heat  outside.  The  drawn  blinds  pro- 
tected the  room  from  the  bright  May  sunshine; 
but  bars  of  light  entered  through  the  slats  and 
lay  across  the  green  and  white  matting  on  the 
floor,  making  it  like  a  daisy-pied  meadow. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Cantor's  near-sighted  eyes 
could  discern  anything  in  the  dim  light,  she  per- 
ceived Mrs.  Dilke  sitting  near  the  window,  some 
white  knitting  work  in  her  hand,  and  on  her  lap 
an  open  volume. 

As  Mrs.  Cantor  surveyed  Mrs.  Dilke  sitting 
there  in  her  white  gown  with  lilac  ribbons,  small 
and  pale  and  cool,  she  was  uncomfortably  con- 
scious of  disadvantage.  She  wished  that  she 
had  waited  for  the  carriage;  she  wished  that 
she  had  delayed  to  consult  her  husband;  she 
wished  that  she  had  not  come  at  all ;  she  wished 
that  Julia  were  not  always  hurrying  her  into 
things. 

"  I  thought  I'd  drop  in  to  talk  over  the  fever," 
Mrs.  Cantor  began,  in  answer  to  the  slight  look 
of  surprise  on  Mrs.  Dilke's  face,  as  she  rose  to 
greet  her  visitor. 

"The  fever?     Is  it  spreading?" 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Cantor  answered,  sinking  into  a 
wicker  chair  which  creaked  apprehensively  under 


PIARIA  ONCE  MORE  111 

her  weight.  "It  began  around  the  mills;  but 
now  it's  in  every  section  of  the  town." 

"I  am  sorry,"  Mrs.  Dilke  answered,  pro- 
vokingly  at  her  ease.  "Can't  they  find  out 
where  the  trouble  lies  —  what  is  causing 
it  all?" 

"They  don't  seem  to,"  Mrs.  Cantor  answered, 
pressing  the  fingers  of  her  white  chamois  gloves 
together  and  observing  with  mortification  that 
the  odour  of  cleaning  fluid  still  lingered  upon 
them.  "The  fact  is,"  she  went  on,  "we  don't 
feel  satisfied  with  the  way  the  doctors  are  going 
to  work." 

"No  doubt  they  have  done  as  well  as  they 
knew  how,"  Mrs.  Dilke  answered,  with  secret 
triumph  in  her  heart. 

"That's  just  it.  They  don't  know  enough — 
their  methods  are  too  old-fashioned.  Some  of 
us  have  been  thinking  that  if  your  son  had  stayed 
in  Pieria,  things  might  have  been  different." 

The  olive  branch  was  extended  now;  but  the 
dove  was  wary  and  would  not  peck  at  it  too  soon. 

"  Oh,"  Mrs.  Dilke  responded  coolly,  "  one  never 
can  tell.  Perhaps  Tony  could  not  have  done 
any  more  than  the  rest.  Of  course,  his  training 
in  Vienna  taught  him  a  great  deal,  and  he  has 
had  excellent  resiilts  with  all  his  typhoid  pa- 
tients; but  those  things  are  often  matters  of 
luck." 


112         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

As  Mrs.  Dilke  withdrew,  Mrs.  Cantor  ad- 
vanced. 

"A  lucky  doctor  means  a  skilful  doctor,"  she 
observed  with  emphasis.  "Don't  you  suppose 
if  Doctor  Dilke  knew  that  he  was  wanted  and 
needed  in  Pieria,  he  would  come  back?" 

Instead  of  answering  immediately,  Mrs.  Dilke 
began  counting  her  stitches.  The  pause  gave 
Mrs.  Cantor  an  opportunity  to  look  about  the 
room.  The  simplicity  of  its  furnishings 
went  far  to  restore  her  sense  of  superiority. 
The  matting,  the  plain  green  walls  hung 
with  photographs  of  Anthony's  choosing,  the 
wicker  chairs,  could  but  seem  humble  to  one 
accustomed  to  plush  and  piano  lamps  and 
oil  paintings.  The  consciousness  of  superi- 
ority at  home  inevitably  tinges  one's  manner 
abroad. 

Undismayed  by  Mrs.  Dilke's  silence,  her  guest 
resumed  with  a  faint  hint  of  patronage  in  her 
voice : 

"  There  is  talk  of  getting  up  a  petition  signed 
by  the  leading  men  of  Pieria,  Doctor  Macassar 
and  all,  asking  your  son  to  come  back,  and  I 
have  called  to  say  that  we  hope  you  will  urge 
him  to  consider  it  favourably." 

Mrs.  Dilke  smiled.  "It  will  certainly  give 
my  son  pleasure  to  receive  such  a  petition," 
she  said,  looking  up  at  her  visitor.     "I  know 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  113 

how  much  he  values  the  esteem  of  his  old 
neighbours." 

"  Then  you  think  he  would  come  ? " 

"Of  course,  I  couldn't  tell  anything  about 
that,"  Mrs.  Dilke  answered,  bending  her  head 
to  conceal  the  triumph  in  her  eyes.  "Tony  is 
doing  very  well  in  New  York."  For  herself 
Mrs.  Dilke  was  as  humble  as  an  apostle ;  for  her 
boy  she  was  as  proud  as  Lucifer. 

"No  doubt,"  Mrs.  Cantor  assented  with  flat- 
tering readiness,  "his  talents  would  meet  with 
recognition  anywhere,  and  as  he  grows  older  he 
of  course  understands  better  how  to  adapt  him- 
self  " 

"  That  is  certainly  a  great  element  in  success 
if  one  knows  where  to  stop,"  said  Mrs.  Dilke, 
casting  off  stitches  as  she  spoke.  If  she  had 
suffered,  if  her  son's  absence  had  left  her  lonely 
and  sore  at  heart,  these  moments  were  yielding 
her  a  sweet  revenge. 

Meanwhile  Mrs.  Cantor  felt  that  she  was  mak- 
ing slow  progress;  in  fact,  that  the  longer  the 
talk  went  on  the  further  she  seemed  to  be  from 
securing  Mrs.  Dilke 's  intercession  with  her  son. 
Though  no  student  of  the  philosophers,  she  had 
a  shrewd  perception  of  one  of  their  cardinal 
principles,  that  where  you  fail  to  appeal  to  the 
mind  by  reason  you  may  successfully  attack 
the  will  through  self-interest. 


114         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Of  course  it  would  be  pleasant  for  you  to 
have  him  back,"  she  observed. 

This  was  a  false  move. 

"My  son  and  I  are  quite  of  one  mind  in  the 
matter  of  his  profession,"  Mrs.  Dilke  responded, 
with  more  reserve  in  her  tone  than  she  had  yet 
shown.  "I  am  glad  that  he  has  found  a  field 
large  enough  for  his  talents,  and  I  should  never 
urge  his  returning  to  Pieria  on  my  account." 

Mrs.  Cantor  rose  thoroughly  discomfited, 
angry  with  Julia,  discontented  with  her  own 
diplomacy,  furious  with  the  pale  little  lady  who 
had  shown  herself  indifferent  to  the  public  sen- 
timent of  Pieria.  But,  brimming  over  as  her 
mind  was  with  mixed  emotions,  she  could  not 
take  her  leave  without  an  attempt  to  satisfy  an 
inquisitiveness  which  had  been  stirred  to  life  by 
the  idle  whispers  of  village  gossips. 

Curiosity  is  like  one  of  the  old  hags  who  claw 
over  a  whole  ash  barrel  full  of  clinkers  for  the 
possible  sound  coal  at  the  bottom.  Mrs.  Cantor 
felt  herself  covered  with  the  ashes  of  humiliation ; 
but  she  was  loath  to  depart  without  securing 
her  coal  of  compensation. 

"I  hear,"  she  said,  smoothing  her  gloves  as 
she  looked  at  Mrs.  Dilke,  "  that  there  are  attrac- 
tions in  New  York  which  would  naturally  make 
Pieria  seem  dull  to  yotu"  son," 

"Indeed!" 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  115 

"  Yes,  they  say  that  he  is  interested  in  a  young 
lady." 

If  Mrs.  Cantor  had  known  what  a  poisoned 
dagger  she  was  planting  in  Mrs.  Dilke's  bosom 
she  would  have  felt  a  certain  satisfaction;  but 
the  quiet  face  above  the  knitting  gave  no  sign. 

"May  I  ask  the  lady's  name?"  Mrs.  Dilke 
inquired,  a  note  of  sarcasm  in  her  voice. 

"  Who  should  know  it,  if  not  Doctor  Dilke's 
mother?"  Mrs.  Cantor  answered,  with  a  mean- 
ing smile.  "  I  hope  you  will  give  him  our  con- 
gratulations when  you  write." 

"Thank  you.  When  I  hear  that  he  needs 
them,  I  will.     You  won't  stay?" 

"  Not  this  morning.  It's  very  kind;  but  I  am 
going  to  see  my  sister's  little  boy  who  is  ill." 

"Not  with  the  fever,  I  trust." 

"  Oh,  I  think  not.  In  any  case  we  have  the 
greatest  confidence  in  Doctor  Patchen.  We 
feel  quite  safe  in  his  hands." 

Mrs.  Cantor  swept  out  of  the  door,  behind 
which  Mrs.  Dilke  stood  with  tightly  interlaced 
fingers  and  a  spot  of  red,  bright  as  youth,  in  her 
cheeks. 

"  Tony  shall  not  come  back — he  shall  not — he 
shall  not!"  Mrs.  Dilke  was  saying  this  over 
and  over  to  herself  as  she  watched  the  portly 
figure  in  black  grenadine  swaying  dowji  the 
gravel  walk. 


116         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

As  Mrs.  Cantor  reached  the  gate  the  letter 
carrier  passed  her  on  his  rounds  and  dropped  a 
letter  in  the  DiUce  box.  Mrs.  Dilke  snatched  it 
out  eagerly  and  saw  Anthony's  writing  on  the 
envelope.  Mrs.  Cantor's  words  were  still  sound- 
ing in  her  ears,  their  poison  still  working  in  her 
mind  as  she  tore  it  open. 

The  letter  was  the  one  telUng  of  Anthony's 
plans,  of  Mr.  Eldridge's  offer  and  of  his  accept- 
ance, while  finalty  at  the  very  end,  and  almost 
in  parenthesis,  camo  the  mention  of  Mr.  El- 
dridge's daughter,  who  was  to  be  a  member  of 
the  party  on  the  coming  European  trip. 

In  this  Mrs.  Dilkc  seemed  to  read  confirmation 
of  Mrs.  Cantor's  hints.  Could  it  be  that  Tony 
had  fallen  in  love  with  this  Miss  Eldridge,  and 
that  his  mother  was  the  only  person  in  ignorance 
of  the  situation? 

Mrs.  Dilke  was  a  fairly  cultivated  woman  and 
sufficiently  liberal  minded  up  to  the  point  where 
her  husband  had  left  her  when  he  died.  With 
his  death  all  intellectual  impulse  stopped.  Her 
reading,  having  been  wholly  a  matter  of  sym- 
pathy, she  had  no  object  in  continuing,  and  in 
religious  matters  it  seemed  to  her  a  kind  of 
impiety  to  stir  an  inch  from  the  spot  where  he 
had  planted  her  feet. 

Of  her  son's  inner  life  and  convictions  she 
knew  nothing,  being  quite  satisfied  to  bask  in 


PIERIA  ONCE  MORE  117 

the  atmosphere  of  excluding  tenderness  with 
which  he  surrounded  her.  To  love  without 
comprehending,  and  to  be  loved  without  com- 
radeship, was  all  that  her  nature  demanded; 
but  when  it  came  to  so  personal  a  matter  as 
marriage  she  felt  that  a  mother  had  claims  not 
to  be  ignored. 

She  had  borne  patiently  the  trials  of  separa- 
tion; but  to  be  shut  out  from  his  confidence  in 
such  a  vital  affair  was  too  much  for  her  endur- 
ance. It  was  not  like  Tony.  There  was  only 
one  explanation.  He  was  under  the  malign 
influence  of  some  girl  unworthy  of  him,  a  girl 
who  was  already  teaching  him  to  neglect  and 
ignore  his  mother. 

Mrs.  Dilke  walked  slowly  back  to  the  sitting 
room,  and  seated  herself  in  the  little  green  willow 
rocking  chair.  Then  she  spread  out  the  letter 
and  read  it  through  again  from  beginning  to 
end.  A  thousand  winged  terrors  seemed  to 
fly  out  of  it  to  harass  her  soul.  Before  she  had 
finished,  she  had  wrought  herself  up  to  the  point 
where  men  take  to  drink  and  women  to  ink. 
She  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  her  duty  to 
lose  no  time  in  warning  Tony  against  this 
designing  young  woman  who  rose  before  her 
imagination  in  blacker  and  blacker  colours  as 
she  thought  of  her. 

Under  this  impulse   she   seized  her  writing 


118         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

pad  and  wrote  the  ill-fated  screed  which  followed 
her  son  from  New  York  to  London,  from  Lon- 
don to  Paris,  and  found  its  way  to  charred  frag- 
ments in  his  hands. 

The  wisdom  of  refraining  from  advice  in  situa- 
tions not  fully  comprehended  is  given  to  few, 
and  these  few  are  not  mothers. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Fresh  Woods  and  Pastures  New 

With  inward  pride  and  outward  reluctance, 
Mr.  Eldridge  consented  to  the  painting  of  his 
daughter's  portrait,  and  Newbold  was  eager  for 
the  task.  Here  was  a  picture  which  he  felt 
would  tax  the  utmost  subtlety  of  his  brush.  At 
first  he  found  the  work  easy ;  but  soon  he  learned 
the  difficulties  of  painting  a  face  which  was  never 
twice  alike,  in  which  the  varying  mood  seemed 
to  change,  not  the  expression  alone,  but  the 
very  cast  of  the  features. 

Dilke  was  not  present  at  the  sittings.  He 
was  glad  that  no  one  suggested  it,  and  yet,  with 
a  curiously  contradictory  emotion,  he  resented 
the  high  spirits  in  which  Madame  du  Pont  and 
Joyce  returned  from  the  artist's  studio,  and  the 
constant  allusions  to  bits  of  talk  which  had  gone 
on  there.  Joyce  frequently  quoted  Newbold's 
views,  not  only  on  art,  where  they  might  be 
supposed  to  be  of  value,  but  on  literature, 
philosophy,  the  conduct  of  life.  Dilke  found 
this  absiird,  and  made  a  point  of  combating 
them,  quite  regardless  of  his  real  opinion. 

119 


120         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Intellectual  quarrels  are  the  subtlest  form  of 
love  making.  Yet  Dilke  was  quite  sure  that 
he  was  only  striving  to[counteract  the  erroneous 
point  of  view  which  Joyce  Eldridge  was  adopting 
from  Newbold,  and  that  his  eagerness  to  con- 
vince her  was  a  tribute  to  his  devotion  to  truth. 
Joyce's  manner  throughout  was  so  cool  and 
impersonal  that  Dilke  was  tempted  to  smile 
with  bitter  humour  over  his  mother's  fears. 
The  words  of  her  letter  had  burned  themselves 
into  his  memory,  and  he  sometimes  repeated 
them  to  himself — "entrapped,"  "don't  commit 
yourself!" — and  here  before  him  sat  a  young 
Diana^  unapproachable  as  a  smiling  deity  who 
looks  down  from  her  cold  heights  on  the  passions 
of  men. 

From  Paris  Mr.  Eldridge,  by  Dilke's  advice, 
went  directly  to  a  health  resort  on  the  borders 
of  Switzerland,  a  place  looking  southward  over 
mountain  peaks  and  smiling  down  on  sheltered 
farms  and  peaceful  valleys.  Hygiene  is  a  science 
which  makes  disease  a  disgrace  and  health  an 
achievement.  Consequently  it  tends  to  conceit 
and  censoriousness.  If  there  is  one  spot  on 
earth  duller  than  another  it  is  a  health  resort 
for  those  who  are  not  out  of  health.  The 
routine  of  baths  ^r.d  diet  is  a  weariness  to 
the  flesh,  and  ever  an  invalid  sometimes 
wonders  if  health  is  worth  the  price  at  which 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    121 

it  is  acquired,  while  the  perpetual  reiteration 
of  the  charms  of  the  view  is  in  itself  a  con- 
fession of  the  dulness  which  presides  over  every- 
thing else.  A  view  is  one  word  of  Nature,  and 
constantly  repeated  to  the  eyes,  becomes  as 
tedious  as  a  single  word  of  man  everlastingly 
impressed  upon  the  ear.  On  the  other  hand, 
it  affords  conversation  to  the  commonplace  and 
enjoyment  to  the  inert. 

Mr.  Eldridge  found  mental  employment  in 
committing  the  names  of  surrounding  mountains 
to  memory,  and  physical  occupation  in  the  rotind 
of  hygienic  exercises.  Dilke  was  not  sorry 
to  resign  his  responsibilities  temporarily  to  the 
doctor  in  charge  of  "the  hydro- therapeutic 
establishment."  But  there  were  drawbacks. 
It  left  him  time  to  reflect,  and  it  threw  him  more 
and  more  constantly  with  Joyce.  Together 
they  wandered  about  the  grounds;  together 
they  read  imder  the  trees;  together  they  made 
expeditions  to  the  famous  chateaux  close  at 
hand. 

"  What  a  hero  Voltaire  was! "  Dilke  exclaimed, 
as  he  sat  one  day  with  Joyce  under  the  shadow 
of  Ferney,  looking  off  over  the  wide-stretching 
leagues  of  landscape. 

Joyce  shook  her  head  in  a  quick  sidewise  man- 
ner, which  set  the  sunlight  dancing  on  the  ripples 
of  her  hair.     Dilke  was  seized  with  an  irresistible 


122         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

desire  to  see  it  dance  again,  so  he  persisted  in 
repeating  his  assertion:  "Yes,  one  of  the  great 
heroes  of  the  world." 

'''Quel  drble  de  gout!'  as  Emilie  says.  You 
have  a  strange  taste  in  hero  worship  if  you  select 
that  shallow  sceptic  to  admire." 

"Voltaire  a  sceptic!  I  should  as  soon  call 
Washington  a  Tory.  Voltaire  was  a  believer  if 
ever  there  was  one.  He  believed  in  truth  as  he 
saw  it,  and  he  launched  blows  in  its  defense, 
which  sent  his  enemies  howling  to  their  tents. 
That  is  why  he  has  been  so  well  abused  that  to 
have  hated  him  was  held  a  liberal  education." 

"I  have  never  read  much  of  his  books,"  said 
Joyce,  with  raised  eyebrows,  "  but  I  have  tasted 
them  as  one  tastes  wine,  and  I  found  the  vintage 
thin  and  bitter." 

Dilke  smiled.  "  You  do  not  like  wine  at  all," 
he  answered;  "your  taste  is  for  sugar  candy. 
Your  Mecca  is  Coppet  and  your  ideal  a  Madame 
R^camier,  that  nonentity  whose  qualities  would 
have  been  a  cipher  but  for  the  numeral  of  her 
beauty  before  them." 

"'The  numeral  of  her  beauty!'"  Joyce  re- 
peated scornfully.  "And  is  it  in  that  way 
that  you  would  dismiss  the  force  that  has 
moved  the  world?" 

"That,"  Dilke  observed,  "is  because  through 
all  time  men's  minds  and  judgments  have  been 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    123 

niled  by  their  eyes  and  their  senses.  It  is  the 
privilege  of  posterity  to  escape  from  this  despotic 
sway  and  judge  through  their  reason,  to  estimate 
Madame  Recamier,  for  instance,  not  by  her  curls 
or  her  complexion,  but  by  the  weight  of  her 
influence  on  great  questions,  by  the  words  which 
tradition  has  left  us,  and  which  are  rather 
inadequate  when  compared  with  those  of  her 
contemporaries  and  intimates " 

"Very  well,"  Joyce  responded,  with  a  little 
shrug;  "you  may  set  the  portrait  of  Mme.  de 
Stael  on  your  mantel  and  the  death  mask  of 
Voltaire  on  your  desk,  and  then  sit  down  with 
their  books  in  your  hands  to  glean  what  dry  wis- 
dom you  can.  As  for  me,  I  will  take  David's 
Madame  Recamier  and  spend  happy  hours  in 
simply  looking  at  her  and  rejoicing  that  such  a 
beautiful  woman  once  lived." 

"For  the  matter  of  that,"  said  Dilke,  smiling, 
"beauty  did  not  die  with  Madame  Recamier. 
There  are  beautiful  women  living  to  turn  the 
heads  of  men  to-day." 

"  Oh,  but  not  like  her !  You  don't  understand. 
It  is  the  perfection,  the  flawlessness,  the  fact  that 
her  beauty  needs  no  explanations,  no  allowances." 

"  Perhaps  that  is  why  I  find  it  less  interest- 
ing," Dilke  commented,  watching  with  amuse- 
ment the  eagerness  with  which  Joyce  was  throw- 
ing herself  into  the  argimient. 


124         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"  If  you  find  perfection  unsatisfactory,  that  is 
your  misfortune." 

"  I  find  perfection  of  form  less  satisfactory 
than  the  thing  expressed,"  Dilke  answered. 
"I  wish  to  see  something  going  on  in  the  face 
to  make  the  beauty  worth  while." 

"We  shall  never  agree,"  Joyce  declared. 

"  I  am  ready  to  be  convinced." 

"You  say  so;  but  you  are  not." 

"And  you?" 

"I  am  not  ready  to  be  convinced  at  all.  I 
should  hate  to  think  as  you  do.  Life  would 
not  be  worth  having  on  your  terms.  I  wish  to 
live  in  a  beautiful  world,  even  if  it  is  all  of  my 
own  imagining;  and  to  you  an  illusion,  however 
beautiful,  is  a  foe  to  be  slain  offhand  and  its 
place  supplied  by  a  cold  abstraction  which  you 
call  truth.  You  must  be  forever  prying  and 
testing." 

"  If  you  call  an  illusion  by  its  true  name  I 
do  not  object  to  it.  If  you  call  it  a  belief,  that  is 
another  matter." 

"You  could  not  like  and  admire  a  person 
whom  you  did  not  trust,  could  you?"  Joyce 
asked  meditatively. 

The  question  stung  Dilke.  It  brought  to  his 
mind  a  subject  which  he  was  forever  striving 
to  forget. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said  shortly. 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    125 

With  the  quick  perception  which  was  Uke  a 
sixth  sense,  Joyce  noted  the  sudden  change  in 
his  tone,  the  depression  in  his  face,  and  she 
threw  a  warm  friendhness  into  her  voice  as  she 
said:  "  I  think  that  you  are  the  most  loyal  per- 
son I  have  ever  known." 

Dilke's  face  Hghted.  "  I  would  rather  have 
that  said  of  me  than  anything  in  the  world," 
he  answered.  "I  wish  that  I  deserved  it;  but 
what  put  it  into  your  mind  now? " 

"  The  way  in  which  you  were  speaking  of  Vol- 
taire. He  is  a  real  person  to  you  still,  and  you 
defend  his  memory  as  hotly  as  you  would  have 
defended  his  character  if  he  were  living  to-day." 

Dilke  smiled.  "  I  am  afraid  that  is  no  test," 
he  said.  "The  dead  have  left  their  record 
signed  and  sealed,  so  you  know  what  you  have 
to  stand  by;  but  the  living  are  liable  at  any 
moment  to  do  something  which  strains  your 
loyalty  to  the  breaking  point " 

Again  Dilke  came  to  a  sudden  halt  in  his 
speech,  and  this  time  Joyce  did  not  strive  to 
break  the  silence.  Instead,  she  rose  and  they 
walked  slowly  toward  the  waiting  carriage, 
wherein  Mr.  Eldridge  was  seated  bolt  upright, 
with  his  back  to  the  view  and  his  watch  in  his 
hand. 

"I  am  glad  that  we  are  leaving  to-morrow," 
he  said  shortly.     "Perhaps  when  Doctor  Dilke 


126         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

becomes  my  physician  again  he  will  give  me 
some  of  his  time." 

An  angry  light  rose  in  Dilke's  eyes,  but  Joyce 
broke  in  hastily:   "  It  was  my  fault,  papa." 

"I  dare  say." 

"  We  sat  down  to  rest,  and  we  did  not  realise 
how  long  we  were  loitering." 

"  Well,  well,  get  into  the  carriage  now  so  that 
I  may  at  least  be  in  time  for  my  afternoon  zwie- 
back and  milk." 

Joyce  gave  Dilke  one  quick  glance,  half  amused, 
half  deprecating,  and  then  with  his  help  climbed 
to  the  seat  beside  her  father  and  was  silent  dur- 
ing the  whole  of  the  return  drive. 

Joyce  went  to  her  room  early  that  evening. 
She  lighted  the  candles  in  the  tall  candelabra 
on  either  side  of  her  mirror.  In  the  centre  of 
the  dressing  table,  propped  from  beneath  by  a 
prayer  book,  and  supported  against  the  mirror, 
stood  a  photograph  of  Mrs.  Fenwick.  Thus, 
doubly  reinforced  by  devotion  and  vanity,  it 
constantly  attracted  Joyce's  eyes.  Indeed,  the 
girl  had  fallen  into  the  habit  of  holding  conversa- 
tions with  it  in  which  she  played  the  parts  of  two 
speakers — herself  and  her  aunt.  This  was  not 
difficult,  for  her  aunt's  words  represented  the 
composite  memories  of  many  talks  in  the  past. 
After  fifty,  people's  opinions  are  no  longer  in 
galley  proof,  to  be  changed  at  a  moment's  notice. 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    127 

They  are  stereotyped  plates,  which  one  who 
knows  the  mental  processes  may  draw  out  at 
any  time,  and  be  quite  sure  of  finding  unchanged 
after  the  lapse  of  years. 

To-night,  when  Joyce  had  exchanged  her 
dress  for  a  loose,  flowing  wrapper  and  had  let 
down  the  masses  of  her  heavy  hair,  she  drew  an 
easy  chair  before  the  dressing  table,  and,  seating 
herself,  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  table's  top. 
One  hand  was  bent  backward  and  the  other  laid 
over  it  palm  to  palm  with  outstretched  finger 
tips.  On  these  Joyce  leaned  her  head,  inclining 
sidewise  with  the  right  cheek  upward. 

The  shadow  in  the  glass  contrasted  sharply 
with  the .  photograph  beside  it.  The  one  all 
ctirves  and  colour,  the  other  of  a  delicate  greyish 
whiteness  with  pinched  nostrils  and  dark, 
shrewd  eyes  punctuating  the  hollows  below  the 
brows. 

"Aunt  Sylvia,  were  you  in  love  with  Uncle 
Francis?"  Joyce  asked,  questioning  the  picture 
with  a  whimsical  glance;  and  then  answered 
herself  in  the  familiar  tones  of  her  aimt.  Mimicry 
was  a  gift  which  nature  had  bestowed  on  the 
girl,  and  which  reason  had  wisely  suppressed  in 
the  interest  of  popularity,  so  that  it  was  only 
when  she  was  alone  that  she  gave  it  vent. 

"My  dear  niece,"  the  familiar  gentle  tones 
replied,  "  I  respected  your  uncle  more  than  any 


128         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

man  I  ever  met.  Intellectually  we  were  very 
congenial  and  he  never  failed  in  consideration." 

"  Do  you  call  that  being  in  love  ? " 

"  I  call  it  cherishing  a  tender  affection." 

"No  doubt.  Your  affections  were  your  hus- 
band's; but  I  suspect  there  was  a  region  of 
separate  interests  like  the  allee  defendue  in 
Villette,  where  the  foot  of  man  never  trod. 
Tell  me  honestly,  did  you  never  grow  mortally 
weary  of  good  Uncle  Francis  and  long  to  run 
away,  not  with  anyone  else,  but  just  to  a  bliss- 
ful aloneness  where  you  could  expand  as  far  as 
you  chose  without  striking  the  limits  of  another 
mind?" 

The  eyes  in  the  photograph  seemed  to  smile. 

"I  had  no  time,"  said  the  voice,  "to  think 
much  of  developing  myself.  There  seemed 
enough  to  do  in  developing  other  people.  The 
insistence  on  the  interests  of  self  is  peculiarly 
modem  and  not  particularly  needed  by  human 
nature." 

"  One  more  question :  Did  it  not  annoy  you 
to  have  a  dominant  individuality  come  striding 
in  among  your  whims  and  fancies  ?  Did  it  never 
seem  like  a  pair  of  heavy  boots  trampling  over 
your  sprigged  muslins?  But  I  forgot — Uncle 
Francis  was  not  a  dominant  individuality  like — 
like  some  people." 

With  this  inconclusive  conclusion,  Joyce  rose 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    129 

and  questioned  the  shadowy  presence  no  further 
that  night. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Eldridge  left  the  "hydro- 
therapeutic  establishment"  for  a  large  hotel  on 
the  shore  of  the  Lake  of  Geneva  not  far  from 
Montreux,  a  hotel  with  a  famous  cuisine  which 
began  at  once  to  undo,  as  rapidly  as  possible, 
the  benefit  accruing  from  the  previous  treat- 
ment. 

Dilke  argued,  persuaded,  threatened,  but  all 
in  vain.  Mr.  Eldridge  would  eat  and  drink,  but 
as  to  being  merry — that  did  not  follow,  and 
though  he  demanded  the  constant  companion- 
ship of  Dilke  and  his  daughter,  he  by  no  means 
contributed  to  the  gaiety  of  either  nations  or 
individuals. 

One  evening  soon  after  their  arrival,  he  went 
to  his  room  for  a  nap  before  dinner,  leaving 
Joyce  to  her  own  devices.  Dilke  foimd  her 
standing  on  the  steps  looking  off  over  the  lake. 
The  discouragement  of  her  attitude  touched 
him  to  the  quick.  The  resemblance  to  a  certain 
Da  Vinci  drawing  came  out  strongly  in  the 
droop  of  her  head  and  the  doubtful  smile  about 
the  comers  of  her  lips  as  she  looked  up  at  his 
approach.  The  sunset  was  playing  temptingly 
across  the  ripples  of  the  lake,  and  Dilke,  taking 
out  his  watch,  suggested  that  they  might  have 
a  short  row  before  dinner. 


130         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"You  do  not  think  that  it  would  be  against 
the  conventions?"  Joyce  queried,  looking  long- 
ingly at  the  stretch  of  illuminated  water. 

"Conventions,"  Dilke  answered,  "are  only 
innovations  to  which  we  have  grown  accustomed. 
Let  us  make  our  own." 

"Very  well,  then,"  said  Joyce.  "Let  us  go. 
I  was  thinking  how  pleasant  it  would  be."  As 
she  spoke,  she  threw  a  long  white  wool  cloak  over 
her  dress  of  blue  muslin. 

At  the  water's  edge  the  boats  lay  tossing 
lightly.  Earlier  in  the  day  there  had  been  a 
high  wind  which  had  driven  the  spray  over  the 
boats,  and  pools  of  water  still  stood  under  the 
seats. 

Joyce  raised  her  slippered  foot  and  lifted  the 
soft  frills  of  her  skirt  to  step  into  the  boat.  Dilke 
looked  down  with  marked  disapproval  in  his 
eyes. 

"You  cannot  wear  those  things  in  the  boat," 
he  said. 

"'Those  things*  are  thicker  than  you  think." 

"  Not  unless  my  eyes  deceive  me.  Don't  you 
see  that  pool  of  water  where  your  feet  must  rest? 
Let  us  go  back!" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"  Oh,  yes! "  Dilke  rejoined  with  emphasis. 

"Why  should  we?" 

"You  will  take  cold." 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    131 

"You  overrate  your  responsibilities,"  ex- 
claimed Joyce,  with  her  smile  of  doubtful  inter- 
pretation. "You  are  papa's  medical  adviser 
— not  mine.  If  I  am  ever  ill  I  shall  resort  to 
homoeopathy." 

Physicians  of  the  old  school  see  as  much 
humour  in  the  subject  of  homoeopathy  as  a  bull 
is  able  to  discern  in  the  red  flag  of  the  Spanish 
arena. 

"  I  make  no  claim  to  be  your  medical  adviser," 
Dilke  answered  stiffly;  "and  when  you  are  ill 
you  may  play  with  any  little  white  sugarplums 
that  you  choose;  but  I  am  responsible  to  your 
father  for  your  not  taking  cold  when  you  are 
under  my  charge." 

"I  shall  not  take  cold,"  Joyce  observed  with 
airy  assurance,  preparing  to  step  into  the 
boat. 

Dilke  made  no  response,  but  pulling  off  his  coat 
threw  it  into  the  pool  of  water  imder  the  seat. 
It  was  a  more  heroic  action  than  Sir  Walter's,  for 
Raleigh  probably  had  several  dozen  cloaks  at 
home,  and  this  was  Dilke's  best. 

Joyce  looked  at  him,  a  quick  little  frown  con- 
tracting her  slender  eyebrows. 

"Was  it  worth  all  that,"  she  asked,  "to  put 
me  in  the  wrong? " 

"It  is  worth  considerably  more  than  that  to 
me  that  you  should  not  wet  your  feet,"  Dilke 


132         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

answered,  and  added,  "My  professional  repu- 
tation is  at  stake." 

"Wait  a  minute,  please,"  Joyce  exclaimed, 
and  sped  across  the  lawn  of  the  hotel.  When 
she  reappeared  a  few  moments  later  her  feet 
were  shod  in  calfskin.  Dilke  helped  her  into 
the  boat  without  comment.  She  picked  up 
his  coat,  shook  it  and  laid  it  across  the  bow  to 
dry,  then  she  took  her  seat  in  the  stem.  Dilke 
jumped  in  and  took  the  oars. 

"I  behaved  like  a  child,"  said  Joyce;  "but 
let  us  consider  the  episode  ended.  I  dare  say 
my  conscience  will  have  its  revenge  later,  how- 
ever. Emilie  says  that  the  modem  conscience 
avails  only  to  make  us  uncomfortable  in  doing 
the  things  which  nevertheless  we  continue  to 
do." 

Dilke  pulled  a  few  strokes  in  silence  till  they 
were  under  the  shadow  of  a  wooded  point  which 
screened  Joyce  from  the  sunset  light.  Then  he 
rested  on  his  oars,  and  looked  at  her,  looked  and 
looked  with  throbbing  pulses,  till,  feeling  the 
necessity  of  breaking  the  silence,  he  said  ab- 
ruptly : 

"  Your  cousin  is  strangely  different  from  you." 

"Yes,"  Joyce  assented  thoughtfully,  and 
added,  "  She  is  very  interesting." 

Dilke  smiled.  "  That  is  not  exactly  the  point 
of  difference  which  I  had  in  mind,"  he  said. 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    133 

"  I  was  thinking  how  much  surer  of  being  happy 
she  was  than  you." 

"I  know  that."  Joyce  shook  her  head  rue- 
fully as  she  spoke.  "But  you — how  could  you 
know — how  could  you  guess?" 

"From  what  I  have  seen  of  you  and  of  her. 
She  is  a  woman  of  objective  ambitions.  She 
eagerly  desires  certain  things  and  strains  every 
nerve  to  attain  them.  If  she  fails,  she  will  turn 
her  back  decisively  on  those  things  and  grasp 
at  others  more  within  her  reach.  You,  on  the 
other  hand,  whose  ambition  is  to  be  rather  than 
to  do,  or  to  have,  are  doomed  to  disappointment. 
You  are  constantly  tampering  with  your  tem- 
perament." 

"Tampering  with  my  temperament?  Does 
that  really  mean  anything  at  all? " 

Joyce  showed  a  mocking  dimple  in  either 
cheek  as  she  put  the  question.  Dilke  noted 
the  dimples ;  but  he  would  not  heed  the  mockery. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  does  mean  something.  It 
is  quite  simple.  It  is  that  you  are  striving  to 
be  what  you  are  not.  Nature  meant  you  to  be 
an  idealist  and  you  wish  to  be  a  woman  of  the 
world.  Nature  decreed  that  you  should  be 
whimsical  and  you  are  determined  to  be  logical. 
Altogether,  you  are  like  a  watch  striving  to 
regulate  its  own  mainspring." 

"  What  you  call  tampering  with  my  tempera- 


134         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ment,"  Joyce  answered,  still  smiling,  "I  call 
mending  my  faults,  and  I  must  work  at  it  my- 
self, since  there  is  no  outside  power  capable  of 
changing  me." 

"There  might  be."  Dilke  spoke  the  words 
half  to  himself,  and  looking  over  Joyce's  head 
at  the  towers  of  Chillon  rising  like  white  ghosts 
in  the  gathering  twilight.  Their  contrasted 
calmness  cooled  the  hot  blood  rushing  to  his 
face.  Joyce  looked  at  him  with  raised  ques- 
tioning eyes. 

"There  might  be?"  she  repeated. 

Dilke  drew  in  his  oars,  and  leaning  over  them, 
returned  Joyce's  glance  squarely.  "Yes,"  he 
answered,  "  there  might  be  love.  There  is  such 
a  power.  To  ignore  it  is  to  reduce  life  to  a 
meaningless  game  between  puppets.  It  is  the 
primal  ordinance,  the  first  commandment.  Some 
day  you  will  learn  it,  and  then  you  will  not  say 
so  confidently  that  no  outside  power  can  change 
you." 

The  defiance  in  Dilke's  eyes  met  no  answer,  for 
Joyce's  glance  had  fallen. 

"And  what,"  she  asked,  "if  this  love  which 
you  invoke  in  my  behalf  proved  no  delicate- 
fingered  jeweller  but  a  climisy  blacksmith  shat- 
tering with  his  heavy  hand  the  wheels  and 
springs  of  the  watch,  to.  which  you  are  pleased 
to  compare  my  character?" 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    135 

Dilke  drew  a  long  breath.  "Why,  then, 
heaven  help  you!  But  at  least  you  would  have 
lived." 

Dilke  closed  his  lips,  then  opened  them  again 
as  if  to  continue  the  subject,  but  evidently 
thought  better  of  the  matter,  for  he  said  abruptly : 

"Look  at  the  reflection  of  the  sunset  on  the 
water  dripping  from  my  oars." 

He  raised  the  blades  as  he  spoke  and  the 
bright  drops  fell  like  a  shower  of  translucent 
opals  into  the  lake.  Joyce  trailed  her  hand  in 
the  water,  and  bent  her  head  to  watch  the 
ripples  which  floated  in  their  wake. 

Dilke  felt  himself  drifting  whither  he  would 
not,  and  yet  was  powerless  to  stem  the  tide. 
It  had  become  so  much  a  habit  to  speak  his 
thoughts  to  Joyce  that  he  found  it  necessary  to 
put  a  ban  upon  thought  itself  lest  it  find  its 
way  into  speech — for  speech  is  epoch  making. 

Yet  silence  too  has  its  dangers,  and  as  they 
floated  on  and  on  in  the  gathering  greyness, 
an  atmosphere  well  nigh  as  significant  as  speech 
seemed  to  hailg  about  them.  A  touch,  a  word, 
a  breath,  might  have  brought  a  crisis.  Dilke 's 
nerves  were  tense.  It  was  almost  a  relief  when 
he  heard  Joyce  say : 

"I  think  we'd  better  go  in.  Papa  does  not 
like  to  be  kept  waiting  for  his  dinner." 

"  I  have  observed  it,"  her  companion  assented 


136         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

drily,  and  pulled  with  swift,  strong  strokes  for 
the  shore.  He  helped  Joyce  out  of  the  boat 
without  a  word  and  lingered  for  several  minutes 
alone.     Then  he  went  in. 

When  Dilke  had  dressed  for  dinner  he  went 
down  to  the  reading  room,  where,  as  he  had 
expected,  he  found  Joyce  and  her  father.  To 
his  surprise  he  perceived  at  once  that  Mr. 
Eldridge  was  in  a  towering  passion — such  a  pas- 
sion as  he  had  not  observed  since  that  first 
evening  of  their  acquaintance  in  New  York. 

On  Mr.  Eldridge 's  knee  lay  an  open  letter, 
which  he  struck  now  and  then  with  his  open 
hand,  as  if  returning  blow  for  blow.  As  Dilke 
came  up  to  join  the  group,  he  heard  Mr.  Eldridge 
muttering  something  about  "  damned  uncivil 
Dutchmen." 

Dilke  smiled.  "You  forget,"  he  said,  "that 
even  Mr.  Burke  did  not  know  how  to  draw  an 
indictment  against  a  whole  nation." 

"  I'd  have  taught  him  how  if  he  had  come  to 
me.  I'd  have  taught  him,  by  Jupiter!  They 
are  all  alike  from  the  Kaiser  down." 

"What  is  the  matter?  Has  the  Chancellor 
slighted  you?" 

"  It  is  that  boor  of  a  Baron  von  Steinitz  whom 
we  saw  in  New  York — Madame  du  Font's 
friend,  you  remember,  Joyce." 

"Yes,  I  remember." 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    137 

"  Well,  he  writes  asking  you  and  me  to  come 
to  his  cotmtry  house  on  the  Rhine  for  ten 
days." 

"  I  can  imagine  more  deadly  insults  than  that," 
Dilke  observed. 

"But  he  says  nothing  of  you,  and  I  asked 
Madame  du  Pont  to  write  him  that  you  were 
to  be  of  our  party." 

"Is  that  all?"  Dilke  inquired,  commenting 
to  himself:  "Madame  du  Pont  probably  never 
said  a  word  about  it.  It  would  not  have  suited 
her  plans  to  have  me  invited." 

"  It  does  not  affect  us,  papa,"  Joyce  answered, 
with  quiet  pride  in  her  voice.  "  It  is  only  them- 
selves whom  people  injure  when  they  are  rude, 
and  it  is  not  as  if  we  were  compelled  to  go." 

"  But  I  am  compelled  to  go.  In  a  way  I  am 
compelled.  I  promised  when  he  was  in  New 
York  that  I  would  go." 

"  Of  course  you  should  go.  There  is  not  a 
doubt  of  it,"  Dilke  said.  "There  would  not  be 
the  faintest  reason  for  considering  me  in  the 
matter  under  any  circumstances;  and  as  it 
happens,  all  this  fits  admirably  with  certain 
tentative  plans  of  my  own.  Newbold  has  asked 
me  to  spend  a  fortnight  with  him  Bohemianising 
in  Paris,  and  I  thought  I  should  like  to  go  if  it 
met  your  convenience." 

"  It  does  not  meet  my  convenience ;  but  who 


138         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ever  thinks  of  my  convenience?  I  shall  catch 
pneumonia  in  this  damp  Rhenish  hole,  and  get 
an  attack  of  gout  from  their  infernal  black  bread 
and  sauerkraut." 

Dilke  laughed.  "If  I  thought  that  you 
would  confine  yourself  to  black  bread  and  sauer- 
kraut," he  said,  "  I  should  not  worry  about  you; 
but  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  wash  them  down 
with  more  deleterious  stuff.  Miss  Eldridge,  I 
shall  expect  you  to  take  my  place  as  mentor, 
and  to  see  that  your  father  does  not  *  apply  hot 
and  rebellious  liquors  in  his  blood.'  " 

Joyce  smiled.  "A  difficult  task,"  she  an- 
swered; "responsibility  without  authority,  as 
someone  complained  of  in  an  engagement,  and 
I  cannot  hope  to  be  as  terrible  a  mentor  as  you 
were  this  evening  about  my  going  out  in  slip- 
pers." 

"Now,  Joyce,"  exploded  her  father,  turning 
the  vials  of  his  wrath  upon  his  daughter,  "  how 
often  have  I  told  you  that  I  would  not  have 
you  going  about  like  that!  Have  you  no 
sense?" 

"  I  have  a  capital  scheme  for  making  myself 
missed,"  Dilke  interposed,  striving  to  avert  the 
storm  which  threatened  to  overwhelm  Joyce. 
"Every  time  that  Miss  Eldridge  goes  out  shod 
in  slippers  you  shall  drink  a  quart  of  Burgundy. 
Then,  when  I  rejoin  you  in  Paris,  my  occupation 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    139 

will  not  be  so  much  of  a  sinecure  as  it  has  been 
up  to  this  time." 

"  I  tell  you  I  cannot  spare  you! "  Mr.  Eldridge 
exclaimed  violently.  Joyce  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder,  and  spoke  very  low  and  quietly: 
"  Yes,  Papa,  you  can  spare  him.  Don't  you  see 
he  really  wants  to  go,  and  I  will  do  everything 
for  you,  as  he  says." 

So  the  plan  was  made. 

That  night,  when  Joyce  went  up  to  her  room, 
leaving  her  father  reading  the  Spectator,  Dilke 
followed  her  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs  to  say 
good  night.  Joyce  stopped,  and  stood  with  her 
hands  behind  her  looking  up  at  him  shyly,  like  a 
child  who  hesitates  to  reopen  the  subject  of  his 
misdemeanors,  yet  cannot  quite  let  it  alone. 

"Is  your  coat  dry?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  threw  it  down  somewhere 
when  I  came  in.  The  fact  is,  I  had  forgotten 
all  about  it." 

"  Then  it  will  be  full  of  wrinkles,  and  you  will 
have  no  chance  to  have  it  pressed.  When  you 
reach  Paris  Mr.  Newbold  will  laugh  at  it,  and 
then  you  will  say:  'I  will  tell  you  how  it 
happened.  I  spoiled  that  coat  in  trying  to 
save  an  obstinate  young  woman  from  wetting 
her  feet,  and  she  had  not  the  grace  even  to  say 
thank  you.' " 

"On  the  contrary,  I  shall  say:     'That  coat 


140         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

acciimulated  those  wrinkles  in  shrinking  into 
its  natiiral  condition  after  being  unduly  puffed 
up  by  the  attention  which  it  received  from  a 
young  woman,  who  had  the  thoughtfulness  to 
hang  it  up  to  dry,  and  the  magnanimity  not  to 
resent  intrusive  advice.'  What  nonsense! — I 
shall  say  nothing  of  the  kind.  I  shall  not  speak 
of  you  in  any  connection  whatsoever.  I  do 
not  approve  of  mixing  friendships.  It  is  like 
mixing  wines." 

Joyce  broke  into  a  smile  which  showed  the 
dimple  in  her  left  cheek.  Dilke  had  learned 
to  look  for  that  dimple  as  a  harbinger  of  peace 
and  good  will. 

"Good  bye,"  she  said,  "till  we  meet  in 
Paris." 

"  Can  I  take  any  message  from  you  to  Madame 
du  Pont?"  Dilke  asked.  "I  shall  probably  see 
her  soon,  as  I  had  no  time  to  make  my  dinner 
call  before  we  left." 

A  shade  fell  on  Joyce's  manner,  a  hint  of 
withdrawal,  a  suggestion  of  the  stranger,  which 
was  always  latent  in  her  friendliest  moments. 
The  dimple  disappeared.  The  eyes  grew  less 
bright,  as  if  the  candles  behind  them  had  been 
extinguished. 

"No,  thank  you,"  she  said,  "I  have  written 
to  Emilie  to-day.  Good  night."  And  without 
another  word  she  turned  and  left  him. 


( 


FRESH  WOODS  AND  PASTURES  NEW    141 

Dilke  stood  watching  her  until  she  reached 
the  turn  of  the  stairs.  Then  he  went  hastily  to 
the  office  and  sent  a  telegram  to  Newbold. 
Afterward  he  bade  farewell  to  Mr.  Eldridge  and 
finished  his  packing.  The  next  morning  he 
was  off  before  either  of  the  other  members  of 
the  party  was  astir. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
The  Holder  of  the  Claim 

Strange  surroundings  give  perspective  and 
enable  a  man  to  sink  private  griefs  in  a  general 
sense  of  a  world  which  knows  not  Joseph  or  his 
troubles. 

Dilke  determined  not  to  go  directly  to  Paris, 
but  to  stop  at  several  of  the  French  towns  which 
lay  on  his  road.  He  wished  to  be  alone,  to  fight 
a  feeling  over  which  he  had  determined  to  win 
the  mastery,  and  to  strive  to  lose  himself  for 
a  while  in  unfamiliar  sights  and  the  practise  of 
an  imfamiliar  language. 

He  wandered  about  the  old  streets  of  Orleans 
and  Bourges,  and  spent  hours  in  the  cathedral 
of  Chartres.  Still,  at  every  street  comer,  he 
found  himself  confronted  by  the  image  of  Joyce 
Eldridge.  Clearly  there  was  no  gain  in  running 
away  from  the  thought  of  her.  Instead  he  re- 
solved to  accustom  himself  to  it.  He  would  enjoy 
his  memory  of  her  as  an  entity,  and  make  that 
shadowy  companionship  a  source  of  happiness, 
and  still  to  himself  he  talked  of  his  feeling  for 
Joyce  as  friendship. 

142 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  143 

After  three  or  four  days  of  wandering,  Dilke 
began  to  feel  a  craving  for  a  human  companion, 
a  companion  who  spoke  his  native  tongue,  with 
whom  it  was  possible  to  talk  without  so  much 
thought  given  to  vocabiilary  that  there  was  noth- 
ing left  to  communicate. 

He  took  the  train  for  Paris,  and  with  the 
expectation  of  seeing  Newbold  his  spirits  rose, 
not  to  boiling  point,  but  from  zero  to  ten  above. 

Newbold' s  studio  was  at  the  top  of  many- 
weary  flights  of  stone  stairs,  and  Dilke  was  out 
of  breath  and  out  of  patience  before  he  reached 
it.  In  the  darkness  of  the  hall  he  was  peering 
about  for  the  name  on  the  door,  when  he  heard 
a  well-known  voice  shouting  from  within: 

"Too  much  care  will  turn  a  young  man  grey. 
Too  much  care  will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay." 

"Much  he  knows  about  it!"  muttered  Dilke, 
as  he  banged  on  the  door. 

There  is  an  irritation  in  having  private 
experiences,  which  to  us  are  distinctly  individual, 
brushed  away  into  the  dust  heap  of  the  ex- 
periences of  the  race.  For  the  first  time  in  his 
life  Dilke  was  learning  the  pressure  of  an  over- 
mastering care,  and  he  did  not  enjoy  this  lyrical 
and  jovial  treatment  of  it.  But  the  most 
churlish  soul  could  not  cherish  resentment 
against  Newbold.     Dilke's  irritation  vanished 


144         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

as  he  caught  sight  of  him  standing  at  the  open 
door,  pallette  in  hand  and  a  brush  in  his  mouth. 

Newbold  was  a  man  with  a  chivalrous  soul 
and  a  romantic  disposition  which,  if  cased  in  a 
tall  form  and  classic  face,  would  have  wrought 
itself  out  naturally  and  harmoniously;  but  how 
can  a  short  and  squat  figure  associate  itself  with 
romance,  or  a  broad,  fiat  Dutch  countenance 
express  chivalry  without  making  itself  ridicu- 
lous? Nature  had  imposed  upon  Newbold  a 
comic  part  and  he  had  accepted  it  as  inevitable, 
only  adding  a  touch  of  irony  to  the  humour  and 
a  latent  pungency  to  his  jests. 

If  he  had  his  periods  of  depression  and 
despair,  his  exaltations  and  his  lofty  aspirations, 
he  reserved  them  for  periods  of  solitude  and 
rooms  where  there  were  no  mirrors. 

"Oh,  Tony,  glad  to  see  you!"  Newbold 
exclaimed,  getting  rid  of  his  brush  somehow. 
"  I  want  to  show  you  the  portrait  of  Miss  Eldridge. 
Here,  give  me  your  valise.  I  have  arranged 
a  sofa  bed  for  you  in  the  little  room;  but  first 
tell  me  what  you  think  of  the  picture." 

While  Newbold  was  speaking,  he  led  the  way 
into  the  studio  and  cleared  away  a  pile  of  green 
corduroy  from  an  arm  chair.  "  Sit  down  here," 
he  added,  "  and  let  me  turn  the  portrait  to  the 
light.     There,  is  it  like  her  ? " 

Dilke  studied  the  picture  with  a  delight  which 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  145 

made  it  difficult  to  speak.  Yes,  this  was  Joyce 
at  her  best.  There  was  something  in  her  carriage 
so  free,  so  buoyant,  that  it  suggested  a  flight  of 
song  birds.  Her  figure  indeed  was  ahnost  too 
slender,  yet  it  held  the  head  above  it  lightly  like 
a  flower.  Her  face  suggested  Shelley's  in  the 
delicacy  of  its  contour,  and  the  incorrigible  un- 
worldliness  in  the  eyes  which  looked  out  from 
under  the  broad,  low  brow. 

"Very  like,  I  should  say,"  Dilke  answered; 
"that  is  her  way  of  leaning  forward  as  if  she 
were  eager  for  the  next  remark,  yours  or  hers, 
she  never  cared  which.  I  like  it  exceedingly; 
but  after  all,  what  do  you  care  for  the  opinion 
of  a  layman?" 

"  That  is  precisely  what  I  want.  It  is  laymen 
who  are  to  see  the  picture  and  to  judge  it. 
Naturally  I  wish  it  to  please  them.  I  should  not 
be  satisfied  to  have  my  work  caviare  to  the 
general  even  to  have  it  terrapin  to  the  elect. 
There  is  something  about  the  eyes,"  he  added, 
looking  at  the  picture  with  his  eyes  half  shut, 
"which  I  have  not  succeeded  in  catching.  That 
'light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land,'  that 
something  too  fleeting  to  be  caught  on  canvas 
which  is,  after  all,  the  essence  of  life.  We 
painters  can  never  give  up  trying  to  fix  the  un- 
fixable,  the  sun  on  water,  for  instance,  or  the 
light  in  a  woman's  eyes." 


146         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"As  a  rule,"  said  Dilke,  "  I  prefer  that  things 
should  not  be  too  permanent.  After  a  short  time 
I  can  dispense  with  even  the  light  in  a  woman's 
eyes,  and  the  only  permanent  emotion  is  ennui." 

"Ennui!"  exclaimed  Newbold  scornfully. 
"  Ennui,  with  all  the  enjoyment  to  be  had  out  of 
life  in  general!" 

"There  is  no  such  thing  as  life  in  general," 
retorted  Dilke.  "What  is  life  as  a  generality? 
What  is  art  as  a  generality? " 

"Art?"  answered  Newbold,  trapped  by  the 
catchword  of  his  craft,  "  Someone  has  said  that 
art  is  a  comer  of  the  world  seen  through  a  tem- 
perament." 

"  Exactly! "  returned  Dilke  triumphantly.  "  So 
is  life  a  comer  of  the  world  seen  through  a  tem- 
perament. There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  clear 
white  light  on  himianity." 

While  Dilke  was  speaking,  he  was  studying 
the  picture.  The  face,  with  its  characteristic 
enigmatical  smile,  the  slightly  lifted  eyebrows, 
the  half- parted  lips.  It  was  Joyce  herself, 
and  Dilke  felt  that  he  had  done  himself  little 
good  in  fleeing  from  the  original  only  to  be 
thrown  into  daily  companionship  with  its  double 
on  the  canvas  here. 

"The  dress  is  charming,"  he  said  at  lengthy 
recognising  it  as  the  gown  in  which  he  had  first 
seen  Joyce  in  her  father's  library. 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  147 

"Do  you  think  so?  I  don't,"  Newbold  an- 
swered. "  I  should  have  Hked  something  with 
more  colour  and  heavier  folds ;  but  Miss  Eldridge 
had  some  sentiment  about  this  white  gown. 
Confound  sentiment!     It  has  no  place  in  art." 

"Indeed!  I  supposed  there  was  quite  an  inti- 
mate connection." 

"Oh,  I  mean  family  sentiment — sentimental 
sentiment.  It  happens  that  when  a  man  offered 
himself  to  his  future  wife  she  wore  a  scarlet 
gown,  and  he  presented  her  with  a  bunch  of 
magenta  roses.  When  her  portrait  is  painted 
ten  years  later,  gown  and  roses  must  both  go  in. 
Never  mind  what  becomes  of  the  poor  artist! 

"  The  architect  fares  even  worse.  He  puts  up 
a  pure  Colonial  house  and  the  owner  insists 
on  having  a  loggia  on  the  second  story  because 
his  daughter  has  associations  with  Italy." 

Dilke  laughed.  "I  am  afraid  that  my  sym- 
pathies are  with  the  owners  of  the  pictiu*es  and 
the  houses,"  he  said.  "After  all,  it  is  they 
who  must  live  with  them." 

"Yes;  but  it  is  the  artists  and  architects  who 
must  be  responsible  for  them.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose that  our  reputation  is  as  much  to  us  as 
their  comfort  is  to  them?" 

While  Newbold  spoke  he  was  touching  in  a 
high  light.  Dilke's  eyes  wandered  about  the 
studio,   and  fell  upon  a  sketch  of   Brandyce 


148         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

seated  in  front  of  a  campfire,  his  pith  helmet 
pushed  back  from  his  face,  which  showed  ruddier 
than  Hfe  in  the  fireUght. 

Instead  of  answering  Newbold's  aesthetic 
plaint,  he  said  suddenly:  "You  have  been 
making  a  sketch  of  Brandyce,  I  see.  How  much 
do  you  know  about  him,  Newbold? " 

"  Do  you  wish  to  be  told  what  I  know  or 
what  I  surmise?" 

"Both." 

"I  know,  then,  that  he  is  the  correspondent 
of  a  London  paper — war  correspondent,  when 
there  is  a  war — omnium- gatherum  in  times  of 
peace.  I  know  that  he  is  accepted  in  the  best 
society  in  Vienna,  that  his  connections  are 
excellent,  that  he  has  an  uncle  in  the  Cabinet, 
and  that  he  is  an  entertaining  companion." 

"What  do  you  surmise?" 

"Are  there  not  enough  disagreeable  facts  in 
the  world,  without  adding  nasty  surmises?" 

"You  surmise ?" 

"  If  you  will  have  it,  I  have  a  suspicion  that 
there  was  some  irregularity  about  his  resignation 
from  the  army.  One  fellow  hinted  as  much 
to  me.  In  fact,  he  suggested  that  there  was 
some  affair  which,  if  Brandyce's  uncle  had  not 
been  a  high  official,  would  have  been  investigated. 
There  may  be  nothing  whatever  in  it.  I  am  sure 
I  hope  there  is  not." 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  149 

Newbold  hesitated  a  minute,  and  then  turning 
away  from  the  portrait,  he  said:  "I  have 
thought  a  great  many  times,  Dilke,  of  otir 
talk  there  on  the  hillside  at  Pieria  and  of  the 
things  which  you  said  about  Brandy ce.  I  did 
not  understand  them  then.  They  seemed  to 
me  overstrained ;  but  I  have  met  him  twice  since 
then,  and  naturally  I  looked  at  him  more  closely 
in  the  light  of  your  suspicions.  The  more  I 
studied  him  the  more  I  felt  that  you  were  right. 
He  is  attractive,  his  manners  are  excellent,  he 
is  a  capital  comrade,  but  in  spite  of  it  all,  is  he 
a  gentleman?" 

It  is  curious  how,  if  one  carries  a  sore  spot  in 
his  heart,  all  conversation  has  an  irresistible 
tendency  to  alight  and  dance  on  it.  This  was 
a  question  which  Dilke  had  blamed  himself 
for  being  able  neither  to  choke  off  nor  to 
answer. 

His  part  and  Newbold 's  seemed  strangely 
reversed  since  their  conversation  in  Pieria.  It 
was  now  Dilke  who  was  inclined  to  be  discreet 
and  conservative. 

He  would  not  answer  directly.  Instead,  he 
parried.  "  1  am  natiu*ally  prejudiced  in  his 
favour  by  his  having  saved  my  life.  But,  New- 
bold,  what  do  you  mean  by  a  gentleman?  It 
is  difficult,  isn't  it,  to  say  exactly  what  it  is 
that  constitutes  a  gentleman  as  distinguished 


150         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

from  a  fine  man.  What  is  the  essential — the 
quintessential  quality?" 

"I  should  say  sensitiveness,"  Newbold  ob- 
served, stepping  backward  to  get  a  longer 
perspective  on  his  picture — "sensitiveness  and 
simplicity ' ' 

"  Might  a  man  lie  and  still  be  a  gentleman? " 

"He  could  not  be  in  the  habit  of  lying,  be- 
cause then  he  would  be  neither  sensitive  nor 
simple ;  but  to  lie  once — I  don't  know — the  ideal 
is  the  bull's-eye  of  a  target  which  we  cannot 
hope  to  hit  every  time." 

"Similes  are  misleading,"  Dilke  answered, 
"but  I  should  say  that  the  ideal  is  the  first 
meridian  from  which  we  may  measure  our 
deviations.  When  I  remember  the  deviations 
of  which  I  have  been  guilty  myself,  I  do  not 
propose  to  play  the  Pharisee  with  any  poor 
devil  who  has  been  overcome  by  sudden  tem- 
tation. 

"I  did  an  idiotic  thing  once — worse  than 
idiotic — let  me  call  it  by  its  true  name — a  dis- 
honourable, a  dishonest  thing,  and  the  story 
would  not  point  a  Sunday-school  moral,  for  in 
a  way  all  my  material  success  has  seemed  to 
flow  from  it;  but  for  all  that  it  has  carried  its 
punishment.  I  wake  at  night  and  feel  hot 
when  I  think  of  it.  I  would  give  years  of  my 
life  to  blot  it  out — ^perhaps  Brandyce  feels  in 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  151 

the  same  way — that  is,  if  he  really  ever  did 
anything " 

"You  evidently  do  not  care  to  express  an 
opinion  about  Brandy ce." 

*'No,  frankly,  I  do  not.  I  find  that  putting 
a  thing  into  words  makes  it  much  more  definite 
in  my  own  mind.  I  forgot  myself  once  in  that 
talk  with  you,  and  I  have  been  sorry  for  it  ever 
since.  I  am  trying  to  think  well  of  Brandy  ce. 
Of  course,  you  see,  you  wish  to  think  well  of  a 
man  who  has  saved  your  life.  I  am  sure  that  if 
there  were  ever  anything  that  I  could  do  for 
him,  I  would  do  it  with  all  my  heart.  I  would 
make  great  sacrifices.  I  wish,"  he  added  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "that  liking  were  a  matter 
more  under  one's  own  control." 

"  I  do  not, "  said  Newbold.  "  I  am  glad  to 
have  one  thing  removed  from  the  market  place 
of  obligation  and  left  spontaneous." 

"Would  you  say  the  same  of  love?" 

"Certainly." 

"  Not  I,  then.  Half  the  troubles  in  the  world 
come  from  people's  loving  when  they  ought 
not  to,  and  the  other  half  from  their  not  being 
loved  when  they  ought  to  be." 

Dilke  rose  as  he  spoke  and  walked  to  the 
comer  of  the  studio  to  study  the  portrait  of 
Joyce  Eldridge  from  a  different  angle.  "If 
you  really  want  me  to  criticise,"  he  said,  "I 


152         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

shotdd  say  that  there  was  a  shade  too  much  of 
coldness  in  the  expression.  You  have  overdone 
the  look  of  indifference.  There  is  intellectual 
perception  but  very  little  sympathy,  and  sym- 
pathy is  a  marked  characteristic. 

Dilke's  mind  was  fixed  on  a  picture  of  a  girl 
standing  at  the  foot  of  a  flight  of  stairs,  her 
hands  clasped  behind  her  and  her  eyes  looking 
up  with  a  soft  and  timid  appeal.  Naturally 
Newbold  had  no  such  picture  before  him,  and 
like  most  artists,  he  recognised  the  layman's  abil- 
ity to  appreciate  more  than  his  right  to  criticise. 

"Your  comment  is  at  once  vague  and  icono- 
clastic," Newbold  answered  with  a  touch  of 
stiffness;  "one  of  those  easy  suggestions  that 
the  work  is  fundamentally  wrong  but  otherwise 
charming.  The  soul  of  the  painter  is  often 
cheered  by  such  assurances.  We  grow  accus- 
tomed to  them;  but  as  to  Miss  Eldridge,  perhaps 
our  conceptions  of  her  character  differ.  I 
found  her  rather  frosty." 

"Frosty!  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  assume 
a  glaze  of  frost  yourself  if  you  were  compelled 
to  live  by  the  side  of  a  volcano — Mr.  Eldridge's 
temper " 

Dilke  ended  his  sentence  with  an  expressive 
shrug. 

"  You  seem  to  take  a  great  interest  in  the  ice 
maiden,"  said  Newbold. 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  153 

"More  or  less,"  Dilke  answered  in  a  tone 
meant  to  be  offhand,  and  unconscious  of  the 
offence  which  his  comment  on  the  picture  had 
given.  "  Miss  Eldridge  is  a  personaUty,  and 
personaHties  are  rare  on  my  horizon.  Most 
people  are  as  like  as  the  bottles  in  a  drug  store. 
By  the  way,  Newbold,  if  you  are  going  home 
soon,  why  can  you  not  arrange  to  come  with 
us?" 

"And  play  chess  with  the  volcano  while  you 
attempt  to  thaw  the  ice  maiden?  The  prospect 
does  not  sound  attractive." 

"You  are  out  in  your  calculations  there,  old 
Truepenny.  I  am  more  afraid  of  the  ice  maiden 
than  of  the  volcano.  Ice  can  burn  as  well  as 
fire " 

"Whew!"  Newbold  whistled.  "You  are  in 
for  a  serious  case.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  her 
about  it?" 

"  Not  for  the  whole  round  world! " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  asking  her  to  marry  you. 
No  poor  and  honourable  young  man  does  that. 
He  simply  tells  the  girl  how  he  feels  and  finds  out 
how  she  feels,  and  when  she  assures  him  that  it 
will  be  only  a  pleasure  to  wait  ten  years  for  him, 
he  calls  himself  a  brute  and  her  an  angel,  and 
so  it  is  all  arranged  with  no  disparagement  of 
his  nice  sense  of  propriety." 

"Ouch!     Newbold,    you   hurt,"    said    Dilke, 


154         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

with  a  grimace.  "  On  the  whole,  I  am  very  glad 
you  are  not  to  cross  with  us." 

"So  am  I,"  Newbold  interrupted. 

"Too  much  care  for  others  will  never  turn 
your  hair  grey,"  Dilke  went  on ;  "  but  I  wish  that 
I  could  learn  your  secret  of  perennial  cheerful- 
ness." 

"And  suppose,"  said  Newbold,  turning  sud- 
denly serious,  "  suppose  you  found  that  I  had  no 
secret  to  teach  any  man.  Suppose  the  whole 
thing  were  a  bluff.  Suppose  I  found  life  a 
burden  which  on  the  whole  it  was  easier  to  carry 
jauntily  than  solemnly — that  the  galled  jade 
winced  less  if  her  withers  were  padded  with  a 
jest — what  then?" 

"Then,"  said  Dilke,  "I  should  think  you  the 
wisest  man  I  ever  knew.  I  have  made  a  prac- 
tice of  going  about  like  one  in  the  wilderness 
crying  '  Woe !  Woe ! '  as  if  that  ever  helped  any- 
body, as  if  on  the  contrary  it  did  not  infinitely 
and  fundamentally  hinder.  I  will  take  a  leaf 
out  of  your  book  of  wisdom.  But,  New- 
bold " 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Have  you  ever  had  any  special  experiences 
— anything  like  mine?" 

Newbold  was  silent. 

"Come,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it  as  I  have 
done.     Is  there  a  woman ?" 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  155 

For  answer  to  the  unfinished  question,  New- 
bold  took  up  a  canvas  which  had  been  standing 
with  its  face  to  the  wall  and  set  it  on  the  easel. 
Dilke  recognised  it  instantly  as  a  sketch  in  pastel 
of  Madame  du  Pont. 

"I  did  it  from  memory,"  said  Newbold. 
"Each  day  when  they  had  gone  I  painted  as 
long  as  I  could  see  her  face.  Then  I  stopped 
and  waited  till  next  time." 

Dilke  walked  closer  to  the  picture.  The 
figure  was  drawn  full  length,  with  one  jewelled 
hand  lifting  slightly  the  trailing  dress  and  one 
foot  raised  and  resting  on  a  cushion.  Under- 
neath it  Newbold  had  scrawled  in  red  chalk: 

"  Her  feet  are  tender,  for  she  sets  her  steps 
Not  on  the  earth,  but  on  the  hearts  of  men." 

"  Now  you  know,"  the  artist  said,  and  without 
another  word  he  returned  the  sketch  to  the  cor- 
ner from  which  he  had  taken  it. 

"  Of  course  you  never  told  her,"  said  Dilke. 

"  Of  course  nothing  of  the  kind.  Am  I  such 
a  cad  that  I  am  unwilling  to  have  a  woman  know 
that  I  admire  her,  simply  because  there  is  no 
chance  of  her  returning  the  admiration?  A 
man  who  is  afraid  to  tell  his  love  is  not  suffering 
from  love  at  all,  but  from  vanity.  Certainly  I 
told  her.  I  told  her  that  if,  in  all  the  time  to 
come,  I  ever  thought  a  fine  thought,  or  if  my 


156         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

brush  laid  a  good  colour  on  canvas,  it  would  be 
her  influence  working  through  me." 

"And  she — what  did  she  say?  Did  she  laugh 
at  you?" 

"Not  at  all.  She  put  out  both  hands  and 
said :  '  It  is  a  great  thing  to  come  into  a  man's 
life  like  that.'  And  then  a  wonderful  smile  came 
into  her  eyes." 

"They  are  as  green  as  emeralds,"  said 
Dilke. 

"  That  is  a  very  stupid  comparison,  my  friend, 
and  shows  that  you  are  not  an  artist." 

"Or  a  lover." 

"Or  an  observer.  Emeralds  are  hard  and 
bright.  Her  eyes  are  neither.  They  are  green 
like  the  sea  which  changes  colour  when  the 
cloud  or  the  sun  hangs  over  it." 

"Your  devotion  to  green  eyes,"  Dilke  an- 
swered, "is  only  temporary.  As  you  told  me 
long  ago  in  Pieria,  fickleness  is  the  artist's  birth- 
right, and  your  love  of  the  beautiful  will  soon 
transfer  itself  to  other  eyes  of  an  equally  tran- 
scendental shade." 

"When  I  said  that,"  Newbold  replied,  scrap- 
ing his  pallette,  "  I  was  talking  of  fancies,  such 
as  mark  a  boy's  progress,  like  so  many  mile- 
stones, all  pointing  the  way  to  the  passion  which, 
however  it  eventuates  and  whether  it  bring  him 
good  or  ill,  is  to  hold  him  forever  in  its  grip.     He 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  157 

can  no  more  escape  it  than  he  could  escape  from 
the  clutches  of  a " 

Newbold  was  going  on  to  say  more  when 
a  banging  knock  sounded  at  the  door, 
and  in  another  instant  Eustace  Brandyce 
whirled  in  like  a  gale  of  wind  from  the  outer 
world. 

"Enter  third  conspirator!"  he  exclaimed. 
"How  did  you  turn  up  over  here,  Dilke?" 

"Oh,  there  is  no  turning  up  in  Paris,"  Dilke 
answered.  "It  is  only  an  accident  that  every- 
one isn't  here  all  the  time.  Where  are  you 
flying  to  or  from?" 

"  I've  been  on  a  walking  trip  in  the  Balkans 
and  turned  in  five  columns  of  copy  to  my  paper 
as  a  result.  I'm  going  to  do  the  Paris  studios 
now,  and  thought  I  might  give  Newbold  here  a 
puff  in  the  way  of  business.  Next  month  I'm 
off  for  the  States  again.  When  do  you  go  back 
to  the  States?" 

"  I  am  travelling  with  friends,  and  we  expect 
to  sail  from  Hamburg  on  October  15  th." 

"  Perhaps  I  can  make  the  same  steamer  if  you 
don't  object." 

"By  all  means  make  the  same  steamer," 
Dilke  responded,  reproaching  himself  that  he 
could  not  force  his  mind  to  echo  the  cordiality 
of  his  tone. 

"I   almost  envy  you  fellQWS  going  home," 


158         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Newbold  said;  "but  I  forgot  It  is  not  home  to 
you,  Brandy ce,  is  it?" 

"  No ;  but  you  need  not  waste  any  sympathy 
on  me  on  that  account.  My  country  is  Bo- 
hemia, and  wandering  is  second  nature.  I 
should  feel  'cabined,  cribbed,  confined,'  if  I  were 
compelled  to  settle  down  in  one  place.  Did 
you  ever  think  what  an  infernally  dull  time  the 
Prodigal  Son  must  have  had  in  that  well- 
conducted  household  of  his  father's  when  the 
fuss  was  all  over?  Depend  upon  it,  if  a  sequel 
had  been  written  it  would  have  told  how  he 
endured  it  as  long  as  he  could  and  then  went  off 
husking  again " 

"I  suppose  that  I  am  rather  a  soft  chap," 
Newbold  answered;  "but  I  confess  that  'Home, 
Sweet  Home'  always  brings  the  tears." 

"  Precisely,  because  you  are  in  Paris  and  your 
home  at  a  pleasing  and  picturesque  distance. 
It  is  a  significant  fact  that  the  author  of  those 
touching  words  was  a  Bohemian  like  myself. 
By  the  way,  what  have  you  on  your  easel  now, 
Newbold?"  Brandyce  turned  as  he  spoke  to 
the  portrait  of  Joyce  Eldridge  and  took  out  his 
notebook.  "By  Jove!  That's  a  beautiful  girl! 
May  I  have  a  photograph  of  the  picture  for  the 
papers?" 

Newbold  hesitated,  while  Dilke  bit  his  lip 
and  walked  away  to  the  other  end  of  the  studio. 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  159 

"I  don't  know,"  Newbold  said.  "Of  course 
it  would  be  an  excellent  advertisement  for  me. 
Do  you  think  that  Mr.  Eldridge  wotdd  object, 
Dilke?" 

"I  should  think  that  he  would,"  Dilke  an- 
swered without  turning  round;  " but  it  will  be  a 
very  simple  matter  to  ask  him." 

Newbold  detected  the  irritation  in  Dilke's 
voice,  and  turning  briskly  to  Brandyce,  he 
said:  "I  hope  that  you  two  have  not  forgotten 
the  appetites  which  you  accumulated  in  your 
camp.  Dilke,  pull  out  that  packing  box.  You 
will  find  glass  and  china  in  the  closet  — 
broken  most  of  it,  but  able  to  serve  its  turn 
still,  if  careftilly  handled.  Brandyce,  Hght  the 
charcoal  fire,  will  you?  I  will  be  back  in  a 
minute." 

When  Newbold  reappeared,  he  carried  a  long 
roll  of  bread  and  a  chicken  with  yellow  legs 
protruding  from  one  end  of  a  brown-paper 
parcel  and  a  blue  head  hanging  limp  from  the 
other.  A  flask  of  red  wine  was  under  his  arm, 
and  from  his  pocket  he  drew  out  a  package  of 
fresh  butter. 

"Now,"  he  exclaimed,  "for  our  breakfast 
with  the  fork!  It  is  lucky  that  there  are  only 
three  of  us,  for  that  is  just  the  number  of  my 
implements.  Put  on  the  frying  pan,  Brandyce! 
This  biped  must  be  spHt  for  broiling.     Here,  you 


160         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

cut  off  his  head,  will  you?  I  have  an  aesthetic 
repulsion  to  decapitation." 

It  was  a  gay  little  party  which  gathered  round 
the  packing-box  table,  and  Brandyce  was  the 
life  of  it.  No  man  told  a  better  story,  no  man 
had  had  more  interesting  experiences,  no  man 
had  a  keener  relish  for  another  man's  jest. 

"  You  are  certainly  a  man  of  talent,  Newbold," 
Brandyce  observed  at  the  end  of  the  meal. 
"  Who  would  expect  an  artist  to  be  a  cook,  and 
a  good  cook  at  that?  Have  you  any  other 
accomplishments? " 

"  My  forte,"  said  Newbold,  "  is  making  a  camp 
bed.  I  can  lay  the  boughs  so  that  they  are 
softer  than  most  spring  mattresses.  What  do 
you  do  best,  Dilke?" 

"  Nothing,  unless  it  is  to  bandage  a  burn,  and 
unfortunately  I  cannot  do  that  for  myself  with 
my  left  hand."  Dilke  looked  ruefully  at  his 
right  thumb,  on  which  stood  out  a  large  blister 
— the  result  of  his  attempt  to  assist  Newbold. 

"What  do  you  do  best,  Brandyce?  I  don't 
mean  foolish  things  like  those  about  which  we 
have  been  talking,  but  real  things " 

Brandyce  pondered  for  a  moment.  Then  he 
said:  ** I  think  that  I  tell  a  lie  better  than  I  do 
anything  else.  In  fact,  the  beautiful  and 
rounded  completeness  of  my  falsehoods  casts 
all  my  other  accomplishments  into  the  shade." 


THE  HOLDER  OF  THE  CLAIM  161 

"Now  I,"  interrupted  Newbold,  embarrassed 
by  a  recollection  of  his  talk  with  Dilke  on  this 
subject,  and  anxious  to  change  the  impression 
left  by  Brandy ce's  words,  "  I  cannot  tell  a  lie. 
My  eyes  betray  me  and  my  tongue  trips  at  the 
critical  moment;  but  give  me  a  pen  and  a  sheet 
of  paper,  with  the  eyes  of  the  liee  far  off,  and  I 
can  rise  to  great  heights.  I  have  hopes  of  my 
future,  for  though  the  profession  of  lying  is  over- 
crowded, there  is  always  room  at  the  top." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Dilke,  "brushes  may  lie  as 
well  as  pens." 

"  They  may,"  Newbold  answered  unperturbed, 
"or  they  may  tell  a  more  beautiful  truth  than 
any  that  Nature  ever  had  the  wit  to  devise." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Brandyce,  "that  accounts 
for  the  portrait  on  the  easel,  that  Miss — Miss — 
what  is  her  name?" 

"Eldridge,"  replied  Newbold,  while  Dilke 
sat  stonily  silent. 

"I  suspected  from  the  beginning,"  Brandyce 
went  on,  "that  you  were  idealising.  Now  tell 
me  truthfully ;  is  she  as  lovely  as  that  in  real  life  ? " 

"You  must  ask  Dilke,"  the  artist  answered 
with  some  mischief  in  his  heart.  "Dilke  sees 
her  every  day  and  in  morning  dress,  which  after 
all  is  the  severest  test  of  beauty." 

"You  see  this  vision  every  day?  Lucky  dog  I 
How  does  it  come  about?" 


162         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

DiUce  shot  a  wrathful  glance  at  Newbold,  but 
saw  no  way  out  of  the  situation  except  through 
frankness. 

"  I  am  travelling  with  her  father  as  his  phy- 
sician," he  answered,  turning  to  Brandyce. 
"  Naturally  I  see  his  daughter  often " 

"And  you  are  going  back  to  America  with 
them,  I  suppose." 

"  I  expect  to  do  so." 

"That  decides  me.  I  shall  sail  from  Ham- 
burg on  the  15th.  Au  revoir,  then,"  he  added, 
rising,  "and  to  you,  Newbold,  I  suppose  it  is 
good  bye,  till  we  sttmible  over  each  other  in 
unexpected  fashion  in  some  comer  of  the 
world.  People  are  so  sure  to  meet  nowadays 
that  parting  loses  all  its  melancholy — I  might 
almost  say  all  its  interest." 

"Now  you  have  done  it!"  exclaimed  Dilke 
resentfully  as  Newbold  returned  after  escorting 
his  visitor  to  the  door. 

Newbold  only  laughed.  "Don't  blame  me, 
my  dear  fellow,  blame  destiny!  You  know 
you  said  long  ago  that  you  felt  sure  that  fate 
would  throw  you  together  again." 

"It  has,"  said  Dilke,  and  relapsed  into 
silence. 


CHAPTER   IX 
The  Pasteboard  Helmet 

Don  Quixote  made  a  pasteboard  helmet 
which  he  beheved  strong  enough  to  withstand 
the  stroke  of  a  giant.  To  prove  his  theory  he 
struck  it  a  blow  which  smashed  the  thing  to  bits. 
Undismayed  by  the  result,  he  put  it  together 
again,  and  assured  himself  that  this  time  it  was 
strong  enough;  but  he  did  not  give  it  another 
blow  to  prove  it. 

So  it  was  with  Dilke.  He  felt  confident  that 
he  was  master  of  himself.  He  was  sure  that  his 
calmness  would  bear  any  strain  that  could  be 
put  upon  it.  Only  he  regretted  that  he  must 
meet  Joyce  Eldridge  again.  He  would  have  liked 
to  embark  on  a  sailing  vessel  for  a  journey  around 
the  world,  to  join  an  Arctic  expedition,  or  inves- 
tigate the  interior  of  Patagonia  rather  than 
rejoin  the  Eldridges  as  he  had  promised  to  do 
on  this,  the  second  evening  after  their  arrival 
in  Paris. 

The  visit  to  the  German  castle  had  evidently 
not  been  a  success,  for  Mr.  Eldridge 's  last  letter 
had    been   full    of    complaints,    written   in   ill 

163 


164         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

humour,  and  with  a  suggestion  of  reproach  of 
Dilke,  to  be  traced  in  the  accounts  of  his  need  of 
medical  attendance. 

As  Dilke  read  it  he  smiled  to  himself  at  its 
unreason.  Then  a  quick  wave  of  seriousness  fol- 
lowed, as  he  reflected  on  the  amount  of  im- 
patience which  must  have  been  vented  by  Mr. 
Eldridge  upon  his  daughter,  and  he  felt  really 
like  a  deserter  in  leaving  her  to  bear  the  brunt 
of  it  alone. 

A  tumult  of  conflicting  thoughts  swept 
through  his  mind  at  the  prospect  of  the  meeting 
to-night.  He  was  full  of  misgivings.  He  was 
glad.  He  was  sorry.  He  did  not  know  how 
he  felt.  The  pasteboard  helmet  creaked  in  his 
hands.  The  seams  gaped,  and  still  he  assured 
himself  that  it  was  safe  and  serviceable. 

The  Eldridges  were  staying  at  a  small  hotel  on 
the  rue  de  Rivoli,  a  hotel  where  privacy  was 
esteemed  worth  paying  for  at  an  exorbitant  rate. 

It  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  Dilke 
said  good  bye  to  Newbold  and  hailed  a  fiacre. 
The  night  was  wet  and  the  buildings  reflected 
themselves  in  the  slippery  pavement  as  in  a 
polished  floor.  A  mist  hung  over  the  garden 
of  the  Tuilleries  and  the  blackness  was  stabbed 
here  and  there  by  stiletto  points  of  electric  light. 

The  Eldridges'  private  sitting  room  showed 
doubly  cheerful  after  the  chill  darkness  outside. 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  165 

Dilke  was  almost  dazzled  by  its  brightness  and 
experienced  a  sudden  rise  of  spirits  from  the 
mere  surroundings. 

Madame  du  Pont  and  Joyce  were  seated  in  one 
comer  before  a  large  mirror  which  duplicated 
their  figures  and  gave  the  effect  of  a  party, 
though  the  only  visitors  were  an  Englishman 
and  a  young  Frenchman  who  had  been  dining 
with  them.  Dilke  was  secretly  disappointed. 
His  thoughts  had  been  so  full  of  Joyce  that  he 
had  dwelt  upon  this  meeting,  had  counted  on 
finding  her  alone  with  her  father  and  watching 
her  expression  as  she  greeted  him.  Now  every- 
thing was  conventional  and  commonplace. 
"Well,"  he  told  himself,  "it  is  best  so;  con- 
ventions are  a  great  help  to  self-command." 

As  Dilke  entered,  the  room  seemed  only  a 
setting  for  Joyce  in  her  gown  of  pale  green 
crepe  embroidered  with  lilies  and  cut  low  so  that 
her  rounded  throat  looked  like  another  lily 
rising  from  its  greenness.  Her  head  turned 
slowly  at  the  sound  of  his  entrance,  and  the  colour 
rose  in  her  cheeks  and  flushed  the  tips  of  her 
delicate  ears  as  she  came  forward  to  greet  him. 
She  stretched  out  a  cold  little  hand  in  welcome ; 
but  her  eyes  drooped  so  that  their  meaning 
was  hidden  as  Dilke  looked  down  upon  them 
from  his  greater  height. 

The    visitors    rose,    and    Madame    du    Pont 


166         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

brushed  aside  the  folds  of  her  lace  robe  to  make 
room  for  the  newcomer  near  her ;  but  he  declined 
to  avail  himself  of  the  suggested  opportunity, 
as  he  perceived  that  she  was  carrying  on  an 
animated  conversation  in  French  with  the  man 
next  her. 

Dilke's  command  of  French  was  limited  to 
monosyllables,  with  a  few  variants  for  business 
purposes.  He  could  buy  tickets  and  inquire 
the  names  of  streets,  but  he  realised  that  he 
had  no  equipment  for  drawing-room  conver- 
sation. 

Joyce,  on  the  contrary,  talked  with  an 
astonishing  freedom,  and  an  inaccuracy  so 
glaring  that  it  did  not  suggest  any  attempt  to 
speak  the  language,  but  rather  a  desire  to 
establish  a  friendly  medium  of  communication 
with  fellow  human  beings,  between  whom  and 
herself  an  unfortunate  barrier  had  been  raised. 
The  manner  which  accompanied  it  was  so 
winning,  that  verbs  and  genders  fell  into  their 
place  of  due  subordination,  and  the  Frenchman 
found  an  additional  piquancy  in  her  American 
accent. 

With  Madame  du  Pont  the  case  was  quite 
different.  Her  French  could  be  detected  as 
that  of  a  foreigner  only  by  a  slightly  conscious 
and  academic  quality,  which  marked  it  as 
acquired    after    childhood;    but    she    found   it 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  167 

easier  to  convey  the  shadings  of  what  she  wished 
to  say  in  French  than  in  her  native  tongue. 
Now,  as  she  talked,  her  spirits  were  at  their 
highest,  her  laugh  at  its  lightest.  Nevertheless 
Dilke  did  not  find  himself  attracted.  He  chose 
from  preference  the  seat  next  Joyce,  and  dropped 
into  it  with  a  curious  sense  of  finding  himself 
at  home. 

"And  the  German  visit?"  he  began. 

Joyce's  mouth  drooped  and  her  eyebrows 
rose. 

"Ah!"  Dilke  exclaimed,  "the  visit,  I  see,  was 
not  a  success.  I  expected  as  much  from  the 
beginning." 

Joyce  studied  him  with  her  little  puckering 
frown. 

"Are  you  one  of  those  objectionable  psychic 
people  who  know  in  advance  the  things  which 
the  rest  of  us  discover  too  soon?" 

"Objectionable,  doubtless,"  Dilke  answered, 
"  but  a  soothsayer  only  under  very  obvious  con- 
ditions. I  know  a  German  household;  I  know 
your  father;  I  know  you — there  was  no  miracle 
in  foreseeing  the  result  of  the  combination.  In 
fact,  I  fancy  that  I  could  describe  your  visit 
to  you  as  well  as  if  I  had  been  on  the  spot." 

"You  don't  need  to  go  into  a  trance,  do 
you?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     It  fell  out  in  this  way. 


168         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

You  arrived  at  the  castle  in  a  state  bordering 
on  nervous  prostration.  You  had  no  fear  of 
the  Baron,  but  you  dreaded  the  servants.  You 
did  not  know  what  fees  you  should  give  them, 
nor  what  services  you  should  expect  from  the 
different  ones." 

"  You  are  a  mind  reader! " 

"  Next,  you  were  uncertain  about  your  father. 
Oh,  there  is  no  need  of  keeping  up  pretences 
between  you  and  me.  Frankness  is  essential. 
He  makes  you  apprehensive  on  all  social  occa- 
sions. He  is  a  man  of  precarious  speech  and 
impossible  silences.  He  has  never  learned  the 
conversational  value  of  the  question  mark,  and 
he  issues  his  opinions  as  if  they  were  papal  bulls, 
to  be  met  only  by  assent  or  defiance." 

"Really,  you  ought  not  to  be  saying  this  to 
me,"  Joyce  objected  faintly. 

"  But  it  is  true.  Assume  for  the  moment  that 
I  am  Henry,  and  grant  me  a  brother's  privilege 
of  speaking  the  truth." 

**  It  is  in  his  truthful  moods  that  I  like  Henr^- 
least,  and  I  am  afraid  that  I  shall  like  you  still 
less  if  you  adopt  his  role." 

"  Nevertheless,  and  in  spite  of  incurring  that 
awful  risk,  I  shall  do  it.  You  have  been  grow- 
ing thin  and  white  since  I  have  been  away. 
Soon  you  will  repress  yourself  into  a  ghost,  a 
restrained  shadow.     You  must  speak  freely  to 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  169 

someone,  and  you  must  let  someone  speak 
freely  to  you.     Is  it  a  bargain? " 

Joyce  nodded,  brightening. 

"Then  let  me  tell  you  more  about  your  visit. 
There  was  the  Baron,  a  gentleman  with  a  waist 
as  broad  as  his  accent,  and  he  had  a  son  in  the 
army." 

"  Somebody  told  you  that!  " 

"Not  at  all.  There  always  is  a  son  in  the 
army,  and  he  is  generally  visiting  at  the  ancestral 
castle  on  furlough.  This  particular  son  had 
fierce  military  mustachios  which  he  twirled 
while  he  was  talking,  as  if  he  would  eat  an 
enemy  at  short  notice;  but  he  had  a  soft  heart 
nevertheless  in  times  of  peace,  and  he  promptly 
fell  in  love  with  you." 

Here  Dilke  paused  and  looked  inquiringly 
at  Joyce.  Like  most  mind  readers,  he  was 
very  dependent  on  such  data  as  expression  and 
involuntary  movements  of  assent  or  dissent  for 
his  divination;  but  Joyce's  features  were  under 
good  control,  and  he  was  obliged  to  proceed 
slowly  and  tentatively. 

"  You  would  have  found  his  attentions  rather 
diverting  than  otherwise,  except  that  you  were 
in  constant  apprehension  of  strained  relations 
between  your  father  and  the  Baron.  This  kept 
your  nerves  somewhat  tense,  and  when,  near  the 
end  of  the  visit,  the  devotion  of  the  Baron's  son 


170         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

found  its  way  to  direct  and  somewhat  violent 
speech " 

Joyce  looked  up  in  amazement.  Then,  per- 
ceiving the  smile  in  Dilke's  eyes,  she  burst  into 
unrestrained  laughter. 

"You  are  a  wizard,"  she  said,  "but  like  most 
of  your  craft  you  are  half  a  fraud,  and  you 
frequently  miss  your  guess.  Let  us  go  over 
to  papa.  I  see  by  his  expression  that  he  thinks 
you  are  neglecting  him." 

Rising,  she  led  the  way  to  the  table  beside 
which  Mr.  Eldridge  sat  studying  a  map  of 
Paris  and  its  environs,  under  the  light  pulled  close 
to  his  elbow. 

Mr.  Eldridge  growled  out  a  welcome,  the  surli- 
ness of  which  was  explained  by  his  foot  out- 
stretched on  a  chair  before  him. 

"Ah!"  observed  Dilke,  studying  his  patient, 
"I  see  that  you  have  been  taking  literally  the 
advice  which  I  gave  you  before  we  parted 
in  Switzerland.  I  intended  it  humorously,  but 
my  efforts  in  that  line  are  seldom  successful. 
How  many  bottles  of  old  wine  did  you  consume 
at  the  Schloss  to  bring  you  to  this  pass? " 

"You  ought  to  have  stayed  with  us,"  Mr. 
Eldridge  asserted,  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
found  a  grievance,  and  does  not  intend  to  be 
robbed  of  it. 

"  You  forget.  Papa,"  said  his  daughter,  "  it  was 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  171 

we  who  left  Doctor  Dilke,  not  he  who  deserted 
us." 

"Go  on,  Joyce.  Of  course  it  was  my  fault. 
Whatever  happens,  you  always  try  to  put  me 
in  the  wrong." 

Joyce  waited,  with  the  gentle  weariness 
familiar  in  the  mother  of  a  fractious  child,  for 
the  querulousness  to  blow  by.  She  had  grown 
accustomed  to  her  father's  manner,  and  vaguely 
appreciated  that  it  covered  a  genuine  affection; 
but  in  the  presence  of  strangers  it  wounded  her 
to  the  quick,  and  for  some  reason  the  sympathy 
which  she  read  in  Dilke 's  eyes  was  harder  to  bear 
than  the  harshness  which  caused  it. 

"  Newbold  is  hoping  that  you  will  bring  Miss 
Eldridge  soon  to  see  the  portrait,"  said  Dilke, 
thinking  to  change  the  current  of  Mr.  Eldridge 's 
thought. 

"A  portrait  of  Miss  Eldridge?"  inquired  the 
young  Englishman,  who  had  followed  Joyce  to 
the  table. 

"Yes,"  said  Dilke,  "an  excellent  likeness,  and 
therefore,  it  is  needless  to  say,  a  charming 
picture,  which  has  just  been  painted  by  Mr. 
Brackett  Newbold." 

"Newbold!"  echoed  young  Cholmondeley,  "I 
have  heard  that  name  somewhere.  Was  he  a 
friend  of  a  man  named  Brandyce — at  one  time 
captain  in  the  service  ? " 


172         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"  He  is,  I  believe,"  Dilke  answered.  "  Do  you 
know  Brandyce?" 

"  Yes,  that  is  I  did.     Is  he  a  friend  of  yours? " 

Dilke  hesitated  a  moment.  If  he  ignored  any 
special  relation  to  Brandyce,  he  might  learn 
certain  things  concerning  which  his  curiosity 
was  much  aroused ;  but  loyalty  conquered. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  claim  him  as  a 
friend,"  he  replied,  "but  he  saved  my  life." 

"Oh,  but  that  is  very  interesting!"  Cholmon- 
deley  exclaimed,  and  Joyce  raised  her  eyes 
expectantly;  then,  reading  a  visible  reluctance 
in  Dilke 's  face,  she  said  quickly:  "We  will 
not  ask  you  about  it.  Probably  the  subject 
is  a  painful  one.  For  myself  I  hate  to  dwell 
upon  past  dangers.  It  makes  the  future  seem 
more  full  of  risks." 

"Tell  on,  tell  on!"  burst  out  Mr.  Eldridge, 
who  had  no  idea  of  being  balked  of  news  by  his 
daughter's  hesitant  scruples. 

Dilke  shut  his  lips  and  squared  his  chin.  He 
did  not  like  the  tone  of  command,  nor  allow 
for  the  fact  that  peremptoriness  and  profanity 
are  only  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  an 
inward  and  unspiritual  condition. 

Mr.  Eldridge  treated  his  ailments  as  if  they 
were  an  insult  from  Nature,  a  distinct  grievance 
which  constituted  a  sufficient  reason  for  ill 
temper  to  be  vented  somewhere,  and  since  it 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  173 

could  not  very  well  be  inflicted  upon  Nattire, 
who  showed  herself  singularly  indifferent,  he 
deflected  his  wrath  to  his  daughter. 

"Papa  has  suffered  a  great  deal  with  his 
gout,"  she  said  with  timid  appeal  in  her  eyes, 
striving  to  avert  an  impending  conflict  by  pro- 
pitiating the  stronger  power. 

Instantly  the  physician  in  Dilke  asserted  itself, 
and  the  physician  cannot  be  offended;  the 
manifestation  of  ill  temper  being  to  him  only 
one  more  pathological  phenomenon. 

"Your  foot  is  rather  painful,  I  am  afraid, 
Mr.  Eldridge,"  he  said,  "but  perhaps  you  will 
feel  better  afterward.  Whatever  the  trouble 
is,  it  is  better  at  the  surface  than  suppressed." 

"  I  prefer  it  suppressed  entirely,"  Mr.  Eldridge 
observed  drily. 

His  good  humour  was  awakening  already  under 
the  influence  of  the  doctor's  return. 

"That's  right,"  said  Dilke;  "I  agree  with 
you,  and  we  will  proceed  to  try  to  suppress  it, 
not  by  driving  it  in,  but  by  driving  it  out.  First 
we  will  put  on  a  hot  fomentation,  then  we 
will  bind  up  the  foot  in  cotton  wool  and 
cover  it  with  oiled  silk.  After  that  I  will  find 
some  wine  of  colchicum  that  I  have  in  my  trunk. 
I  suppose  the  trunk  has  come " 

Joyce  nodded. 

"Then  we  will  let  him  have  some  of  that. 


174         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

and  I  think  we  shall  soon  see  a  change  for  the 
better." 

"I  wish  you  wotild  tell  us  about  that  man's 
saving  your  life,"  Mr.  Eldridge  petitioned  qmte 
humbly.  "  I  haven't  heard  an  interesting  re- 
mark since  you  left." 

"Of  course,"  Dilke  answered,  "I  will  tell 
you  if  you  really  care  to  hear  about  it;  but 
I  remember  an  old  tutor  of  mine  who  said 
to  me  once:  'Stop  talking  about  yourself  one 
minute  before  the  listeners  are  bored.'  'How 
can  I  tell?'  I  asked  him.  'Precisely;  how  can 
you?'  he  observed.  'Therein  lies  the  gist  of 
my  advice.'  I  have  tried  to  remember  and 
act  upon  it  ever  since." 

"You  know  that  we  are  interested,"  said 
Joyce.     "  Please  tell  us  all  about  it." 

She  sank  into  a  deep  arm  chair  as  she  spoke  and 
young  Cholmondeley  leaned  against  the  mantel. 

"There  is  not  much  to  tell,"  Dilke  began. 
"  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  it  is  a  story  of  stupid- 
ity, pure  and  simple.  Once,  when  I  was  camp- 
ing, I  fell  over  a  precipice." 

"It  is  a  wonder  you  were  not  killed  out- 
right," said  Mr.  Eldridge.  "You  are  always 
doing  foolhardy  things." 

"Yes,"  answered  Dilke,  "but  you  make  that 
observation  in  regard  to  so  many  things,  that 
if   I  heeded  you  I  should  take  to  knitting  in 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  175 

a  rocking  chair  as  the  only  prudent  occupation. 
For  myself,  I  agree  with  Thoreau  that  a  man 
sits  as  many  risks  as  he  runs.  However,  I 
started  to  tell  you  about  Brandy ce." 

Joyce  leaned  forward  eagerly  with  tightly 
clasped  hands  and  eyes  fixed  full  on  the 
speaker. 

Dilke  was  conscious  of  a  mean  wish  that  he 
had  never  begun  the  story.  Never  before  had 
those  eyes  been  fixed  so  intently  upon  him.  No 
exploit  of  his,  he  thought,  could  have  had  power 
to  draw  forth  that  eager,  questioning  glance. 
Still  he  went  on  with  a  tolerably  steady  tone, 
and  told  the  story  from  beginning  to  end,  giving 
Brandyce  full  credit  at  every  step. 

"  He  always  was  a  ready-witted  chap,"  ex- 
claimed Cholmondeley,  when  Dilke  had  finished. 

"You  owe  your  life  to  him,  don't  you?"  said 
Joyce,  musingly. 

"Undoubtedly." 

"  Are  you  glad  to  owe  it  to  him? " 

Dilke  started.  Was  there  a  wireless  teleg- 
raphy between  him  and  this  girl  that  she  should 
divine  his  inmost  thoughts? 

Joyce  Eldridge  had  a  quality  of  perpetual 
surprise.  Her  manner  was  cool  and  soft  as 
snow.  Her  grey  eyes  were  generally  held  rather 
down  as  if  she  had  been  convent  bred.  Then 
suddenly  the  lids  would  lift,  and  with  a  round, 


176  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

direct  gaze  she  would  shoot  an  arrow  straight 
to  the  bull's-eye.     It  was  so  now. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Dilke,  evasively.  "I 
should  be  obliged  first  to  settle  the  question 
whether  life  is  a  boon  or  an  obligation." 

"An  opportunity,  perhaps,"  Joyce  suggested, 
withdrawing  a  little  as  she  observed  Dilke's 
withdrawal.  It  was  characteristic  of  her  that 
for  every  step  forward  in  an  approach  to  in- 
timacy, she  took  two  backward.  She  might 
have  a  heart  somewhere;  but  it  was  not  to  be 
looked  for  on  her  sleeve. 

"  I  should  call  it  rather  a  prize  package," 
said  Dilke.  "  A  man  puts  his  hand  into  the  bag 
and  grasps  he  knows  not  what — an  opportunity 
it  may  be,  or  a  disappointment,  as  chance 
wills." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  his  right  to  throw  it  away, 
as  he  would  a  prize  package,  if  it  does  not  please 
him? "  asked  the  Englishman. 

"  I  don't  say  that.  There  are  others  to  be 
considered.  It  may  be  his  duty  to  accept  the 
disappointment  and  make  the  best  of  it.  At 
the  worst,  it  is  soon  over.  If  immortality  were 
an  established  fact  I  shoiild  regard  it  as  the 
crowning  injustice  of  life." 

"Oh,  come,  come,  Dilke!"  protested  Mr.  Eld- 
ridge,  who  was  quite  orthodox  in  the  intervals 
of  his  profanities. 


THE  PASTEBOARD  HELMET  177 

"You  would  enjoy  an  immortality  of  gout, 
perhaps,"  said  Dilke,  watching  Mr.  Eldridge's 
scowl  as  a  new  twinge  seized  his  foot. 

"That  is  a  bodily  ailment  and  would  cease 
with  the  body." 

"As  would  most  individual  characteristics, 
good  as  well  as  bad,"  Dilke  answered. 

"But  to  return  to  Mr.  Brandyce,"  Joyce 
rushed  in,  seeing  trouble  ahead  if  the  talk 
drifted  further  in  this  line.  "  I  wish  you  would 
tell  us  more  of  him.  It  is  a  comfort  to  find 
that  there  are  such  men  in  these  prosaic  days." 

"You  may  have  the  opportunity  of  meeting 
Brandyce  and  judging  him  for  yourself,"  Dilke 
answered  with  a  touch  of  constraint  in  his  voice. 
"There  is  a  possibility  that  he  may  cross  with 
us.     He  talks  of  sailing  on  the  15th. 

Joyce  coloured  brightly.  "I  am  very  glad," 
she  said. 

For  two  weeks  Dilke  had  been  assuring  himself 
that  he  was  not  in  love  with  Joyce  Eldridge. 
He  had  enumerated  her  faults,  clearly  enough 
detected,  he  had  dwelt  upon  her  coolness  toward 
him,  and  told  himself  that  he  was  not  the  man 
to  die  of  unrequited  affection.  He  had  pointed 
out  that  marriage  was  not  for  him  at  present 
under  any  conditions ;  and  now,  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye,  all  these  sophistries  were  swept 
away  as  he  looked  at  her  and  saw  that  her 


178         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

thoughts  were  dwelling  with  eager  interest  upon 
Brandyce  and  the  prospect  of  meeting  him. 
All  at  once  the  pasteboard  helmet  gave  way, 
fell  to  pieces  at  his  feet,  and  Dilke  knew  that 
love  had  struck  the  blow. 


CHAPTER  X 
Woman's  Mission 

"  The  mission  of  woman  is  the  gracious  accept- 
ance of  the  services  of  man." 

Dilke  made  this  observation  as  Joyce  declined 
his  assistance  in  putting  on  her  jacket. 

They  were  waiting  at  the  Pont  Royal  to  take 
the  river  steamer  for  St.  Cloud.  Madame  du 
Pont  was  standing  at  a  little  distance  talking 
with  her  uncle.  They  were  arranging  the  de- 
tails of  her  crossing  the  ocean  with  his  party,  as 
some  of  her  affairs  and  investments  in  America 
needed  her  personal  attention. 

Mr.  Eldridge  drew  out  his  watch  and  looked 
at  it  with  some  traces  of  his  old  irritability. 
Newbold  was  late,  and  Mr.  Eldridge  detested 
unpunctuality. 

Personally  Dilke  was  sorry  that  Newbold  was 
to  be  of  the  party.  Dilke  preferred  in  general, 
as  he  had  told  Joyce,  not  to  mix  friendships,  and 
in  particular  he  felt  that  there  would  be  a  con- 
straint in  Newbold's  presence  owing  to  a  con- 
sciousness on  both  sides  of  past  confidences.  He 
wished  that  he  had  kept  his  tioubles  and  prob- 

179 


180         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

lems  to  himself.  "  Slave  of  the  spoken,  lord  of 
the  unspoken  word."  How  often  he  had  said 
that  over  to  himself  and  how  little  he  had  acted 
upon  it! 

While  he  was  in  Newbold's  presence  he  had 
steadfastly  resolved  to  adopt  the  artist's  jovial 
philosophy  of  life;  but  to-day  he  felt  a  peculiar 
reaction  of  depression.  Our  habits  are  like 
the  French  aristocracy — nothing  short  of  a 
revolution  can  overthrow  their  power. 

"  The  mission  of  woman  to  accept  the  services 
of  man?"  Joyce  repeated  in  answer  to  Dilke's 
remark,  and  added  scornfully,  "You  don't 
believe  that." 

" Oh,  no,  certainly  not;  why  do  I  not?" 

That  is  the  sort  of  response  which  men  make 
to  drooping  feminine  eyes.  They  do  not  talk  to 
each  other  in  that  fashion. 

"  Because "  Joyce  began,  and  then  inter- 
rupted herself  with:  "There  is  Mr.  Newbold! 
We  must  hurry  a  little  if  we  are  to  catch  this 
boat." 

"Newbold  always  catches  everything,"  Dilke 
answered ;  "  but  he  catches  it  by  the  tail.  Nothing 
annoys  him  more  than  to  find  himself  with  five 
minutes  to  spare." 

The  artist  was  in  his  highest  spirits,  and 
seemed  to  find  the  trip  on  the  river  quite  the 
most   delightful   thing   that   could   have   been 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  181 

planned,  though  for  that  matter  if  the  expedi- 
tion had  been  to  Montmartre  or  Pere  La  Chaise, 
he  would  have  found  equal  cause  for  exhilara- 
tion, especially  if  Madame  du  Pont  had  been 
of  the  party.  His  enjoyment  of  most  things 
was  ptirely  subjective,  and  consisted  in  elimi- 
nating the  unpleasant  side  and  dwelhng  on  the 
other. 

And  yet  there  are  worse  things  in  the  world, 
even  objectively  considered,  than  floating 
through  the  heart  of  Paris  in  sunshiny  weather, 
shpping  past  the  bridges  and  the  islands,  with 
the  gilded  dome  of  the  Invalides  glistening  in 
the  distance  and  two  charming  American  women 
in  the  foreground. 

"Oh,  look!"  cried  Joyce,  as  they  passed  the 
lie  des  Cygnes,  where  swans  no  more  disport 
themselves.  "See  Liberty  enlightening  Paris 
just  as  she  does  New  York ! " 

"Yes,"  replied  Newbold,  "it  makes  one  think 
of  Madame  Roland.  On  the  whole,  of  all  the 
crimes  wrought  in  the  name  of  liberty,  Bar- 
tholdi's  is  the  most  execrable." 

"It  must  be  very  uncomfortable  to  be  an 
artist,"  Madame  du  Pont  observed;  "you  see  so 
many  faults  that  forbid  you  to  enjoy  things 
which  the  rest  of  us  find  quite  inspiring." 

"  Not  at  all,"  Newbold  protested  stoutly;  "we 
enjoy  as  many  other  things  which  most  people 


182         CLABIS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

find  ugly — human  gargoyles,  and  old  ash  heaps 
with  their  nice  shaded  greys  and  purples." 

"Nine-tenths  of  your  enjoyment  in  these 
things  is  pure  conceit,"  volunteered  Dilke  com- 
batively. "  You  are  secretly  pleased  that  other 
people  do  not  find  them  beautiful,  and  you  are 
thinking  what  a  fine  fellow  you  are  that  you  do." 

Newbold  laughed  lightly,  wrinkling  his  nose 
and  showing  his  white  teeth.  "Very  well,"  he 
answered,  "  have  it  any  way  you  like.  I  am  not 
for  tracking  my  sensations  to  their  lair  like  that. 
I  am  quite  satisfied  to  enjoy  without  asking 
why,  and  as  for  vanity,  it  is  as  good  a  foundation 
for  enjoyment  as  any  other.  Don't  you  think 
so,  MissEldridge?" 

Instead  of  answering  his  question,  Joyce  asked 
another.  "  What  is  woman's  mission,  Mr.  New- 
bold?" 

"  Don't  propound  problems  on  a  pleasure  trip, 
my  dear,"  said  her  father,  who  till  now  had  been 
occupied  in  checking  off  the  famous  buildings 
in  his  Baedeker.  He  never  felt  that  he  had 
seen  a  sight  till  he  had  set  a  cross  against  it — 
probably  a  reminiscence  of  his  banking  experience 
and  constituting  a  sort  of  receipt  from  memory. 

"  But  I  want  to  know,  Papa,"  Joyce  answered, 
smiling.  "Doctor  Dilke  and  I  were  discussing 
the  matter  when  Mr.  Newbold  came  in.  I  don't 
know  exactly  what  I  think." 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  183 

"  Woman's  mission,"  said  Newbold,  "  is  not  to 
think,  but  to  be." 

Joyce  laughed.  "  Doctor  Dilke  was  just  tell- 
ing me  that  her  mission  was  gracious  accept- 
ance of  what  man  could  do  for  her.  I  suppose 
from  your  remark  that  we  are  to  include  think- 
ing." 

"Of  course,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge,  as  if  the  sug- 
gestion were  too  obvious  to  bear  discussion. 

"And  are  we  to  be  equally  grateful  whether 
the  service  pleases  us  or  not,  and  however  much 
we  may  happen  to  disagree  with  the  thinking?" 

Madame  du  Font's  suddenly  lifted  eyes  car- 
ried a  shaft  of  derisive  laughter. 

Newbold  threw  back  his  head  in  a  way  fre- 
quent with  him  when  he  heard  anything  which 
pleased  him;  half  closing  his  eyes  and  dilating 
his  nostrils,  as  if  to  breathe  in  the  aroma  of 
the  jest. 

"  Not  grateful,  perhaps,"  said  Dilke  answering 
his  own  reflections  rather  than  the  speaker's, 
as  is  common  among  men.  "Heaven  knows 
gratitude  is  not  a  bellboy  to  be  summoned  by 
pressing  a  button;  but  gracious,  acknowledging 
the  intention  to  serve  you." 

"And  then,"  said  Newbold  answering  his  own 
reflections,  "  you  have  no  need  of  thought.  You 
have  divine  intuitions." 

"Humbug,  Newbold!"  exclaimed  Dilke.  "In- 


184         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

tuitions  are  opinions  which  the  holder  has  not 
taken  the  trouble  to  submit  to  the  processes  of 
reason,  and  correspondingly  worthless.  Take 
notice,  Miss  Eldridge,  that  it  was  not  I  who 
made  such  an  accusation  against  your  sex." 

"That  is  the  point  of  view  of  the  hardened 
materialist,"  said  Newbold.  "  I  regard  intuition 
as  a  reasoning  process  too  swift  and  subtle  to  be 
reduced  to  logical  terms,  as  smoke  is  the  one 
thing  in  the  world  more  subtle  than  water.  It 
can  rise  above  its  source,  where  water  cannot 
follow." 

"  Except  as  it  evaporates  like  steam,"  said 
Dilke,  pugnaciously. 

While  these  young  people  had  been  using 
their  tongues  instead  of  their  eyes,  the  little 
boat  had  been  puffing  its  way  along,  with  a  stop 
here  and  there  at  a  bridge,  past  the  thick 
clustering  edifices  of  Paris,  and  out  into  the 
wider  outlook  where  distant  hills  peeped  above 
the  buildings  on  the  bank  and  the  river  showed 
bluer  under  the  unsmoked  skies.  And  now  St. 
Cloud  was  in  sight — St.  Cloud  with  its  park  and 
its  leveled  chateau  and  its  beautiful  church.  To 
which  should  they  betake  themselves  first? 

Mr.  Eldridge  settled  the  matter  swiftly  and 
imperatively  by  announcing  that  they  would 
have  limcheon.  No  sight-seeing  for  him  with- 
out a  comfortable  meal  as  a  foundation.     They 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  185 

found  their  way  to  the  Pavilion  Bleu  from  the 
boat  landing,  and  seated  themselves  around 
a  little  table.  Mr.  Eldridge  picked  up  the 
bill  of  fare  and  devoted  a  business-like  con- 
sideration to  ordering  the  meal. 

"Doctor,  can  I  have  some  filet?"  he  asked, 
frankly  bored  with  the  conversation  which  he 
had  caught  from  time  to  time;  and  as  usual 
blaming  Joyce  for  allowing  it  to  take  such  a 
silly  turn.  To  Mr.  Eldridge's  mind  everything 
was  silly  which  had  no  practical  bearing. 

Dilke  looked  doubtful.  ''Filet  aux  champig- 
nons, gar  con!  "said  Mr.  Eldridge  authoritatively, 
"  and  a  bottle  of  Burgundy! " 

Dilke  looked  deprecatingly  at  Joyce,  and  she 
returned  the  glance  with  the  sympathy  of  a 
common  powerlessness. 

Newbold  intercepted  the  look  and  placed  his 
own  interpretation  upon  it.  The  reason  why 
Newbold  saw  so  much  was  that  few  believed 
him  capable  of  seeing  anything,  and  no  one  ever 
got  the  benefit  of  the  things  which  he  did  see. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  theatres  much  here  in 
Paris,  Miss  Eldridge?"  Newbold  asked  by  way 
of  filling  the  slight,  awkward  pause  after  the  filet 
episode. 

"  No,"  said  Joyce,  "  I  do  not  care  for  French 
drama." 

"Curious!"  said  Newbold,  "I  find  it  the  only 


186         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

drama  in  the  modem  world.  It  has  such 
finesse,  such  art  of  climax.      What  is  lacking?" 

"Morals,"  said  Dilke,  taking  up  the  cudgels. 

"Ah,  of  course,  if  you  drag  in  morals." 

"I  do  not  drag  in  morals.  I  simply  decline 
to  throw  them  out  of  the  window." 

"  But  in  the  interest  of  art " 

"  It  is  in  the  interest  of  art  that  I  am  speaking. 
Standards  of  life  universally  accepted  are  essen- 
tial to  the  making  of  either  comedy  or  tragedy, 
because  it  is  variations  from  those  standards 
which  stir  one's  pity  or  amusement." 

Newbold  was  opening  his  lips  to  reply  when 
Mr.  Eldridge  exclaimed:  "Great  Scott!  I  have 
a  telegram  for  you,  Dilke.     I  forgot  all  about  it." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Dilke,  taking  the  telegram 
and  laying  it  unopened  beside  his  place. 

"Doctor  Dilke,"  said  Madame  du  Pont,  with 
a  swift  return  to  practical  life,  "  don't  pretend 
to  be  so  superior  to  the  natural  human  impulse 
of  curiosity.  You  know  that  you  are  consumed 
with  curiosity  to  know  what  is  in  that  telegram." 

"Not  I,"  Dilke  answered.  "I  have  rarely 
received  a  telegram  which  did  not  contain  news 
which  I  would  prefer  not  to  read.  Why  hasten 
the  unpleasant  moment?" 

"Nonsense!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Eldridge  im- 
patiently. "  It's  not  business  to  neglect  a  tele- 
gram.    Open  it  at  once!" 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  187 

Again  the  glance  of  mutual  comprehension 
passed  between  Joyce  and  Dilke.  Again  New- 
bold  noted  it  and  laid  it  aside  for  future  reference. 

"With  your  permission,  then,"  said  Dilke, 
and  tore  open  the  envelope.  "  It  is  from  Captain 
Brandy ce,"  he  observed  as  he  folded  the  tele- 
gram. "  He  asks  me  to  secure  a  stateroom  for 
him  on  our  steamer." 

"A  whole  stateroom!"  commented  Mr.  Eld- 
ridge.     "I  call  that  extravagant." 

"  Brandy  ce  must  have  had  a  run  of  luck," 
said  Newbold  to  himself.  "  He  borrowed  five 
pounds  of  me  and  has  not  returned  it  yet." 

"So  Captain  Brandy  ce  is  to  cross  with  us!" 
exclaimed  Joyce.     "  Shall  I  find  him  amusing? " 

"I  fear,"  said  Newbold,  stroking  his  little 
pointed  beard  contemplatively,  "that  I  do  not 
always  know  whether  people  are  amusing. 
Amusingness  depends  so  much  on  the  person  to 
be   amused,   you  know.     How   can  you  tell?" 

"  Do  people  invite  him  on  social  occasions  or 
do  they  only  speak  well  of  him  when  he  is  not 
present?"  queried  Madame  du  Pont.  "That  is 
the  test.  I  am  always  suspicious  of  a  man  whom 
I  never  meet  anywhere,  and  whom  I  constantly 
hear  spoken  of  as  'dear  old  so  and  so.' " 

"  Brandyce  is  invited  on  social  occasions, 
and  I  never  heard  him  alluded  to  as  '  dear  old 
Brandyce,' "  said  Dilke. 


188         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Then  I  fancy  that  I  shall  like  him,"  said 
Joyce,  smiling. 

Joyce's  remark  stung  Dilke,  and  luncheon 
being  ended  he  rose  and  proposed  a  stroll  in  the 
park.  Joyce  rose  also,  but  her  father  drew  out 
two  cigars.  "You  and  Emilie  and  Dilke  may 
go,"  he  said  to  his  daughter;  "but  Mr.  New- 
bold  has  seen  it  all"  (Mr.  Eldridge  could  not 
imagine  any  advantage  in  seeing  a  thing  twice 
when  he  had  once  checked  it  off).  "He,  I 
am  sure,  would  rather  have  a  comfortable  smoke 
here  with  me.  A  park  is  a  park  the  world  over, 
and  as  for  a  church,  I've  seen  so  many  that 
they  are  just  a  jumble  in  my  head." 

Newbold  bowed  assent;  but  managed  to  con- 
vey a  glance  of  comic  resignation  toward  Dilke, 
a  glance  which  said  as  plainly  as  words,  "  I  told 
you  how  it  would  be." 

After  Madame  du  Pont,  Joyce  and  Dilke  had 
left,  the  talk  fell  flat.  Every  subject  which  in- 
terested Newbold  failed  to  interest  Mr.  Eld- 
ridge, so  at  last  it  fell  into  a  monologue  by  the 
host  on  the  American  banking  system,  which 
concerned  Newbold  about  as  much  as  the  cur- 
rency in  Mars. 

He  found  answers  uncalled  for,  however,  and 
that  left  him  able  to  carry  on  an  independent 
train  of  thought  while  Mr.  Eldridge  talked.  He 
fell  to  speculating  a  good  deal  on  Dilke  and  on 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  189 

his  position  in  regard  to  the  Eldridges.  When 
he  first  heard  of  that  young  man's  good  fortune 
in  finding  such  a  patron  he  was  incHned  to  be 
envious;  but  time  softens  to  us  the  prosperity 
of  our  friends  by  developing  its  attendant  incon- 
veniences, and  as  Newbold  looked  into  the 
future,  he  could  see  many  possible  inconveniences 
and  embarrassments  for  Dilke. 

Joyce  seemed  to  be  on  the  borderland  of 
serious  interest,  but  would  she  ever  cross  the 
border?  Now  she  visibly  swayed  toward  Dilke, 
now  away  from  him.  A  breath  of  wind  might 
blow  them  together  or  separate  them  forever. 
A  dehcate  situation,  and  likely  to  be  further  com- 
pHcated  by  the  introduction  of  Brandyce  into  the 
drama.  Yes,  Brandyce  was  distinctly  a  factor  to 
be  reckoned  with.  Impossible  to  say  how  he 
would  impress  a  girl  like  Joyce  Eldridge. 

As  he  recalled  her  looks  to-day,  he  felt  that 
he  cotild  understand  the  strength  of  Dilke's 
sentiment.  The  elusive  quality  of  her  beauty 
was  a  distinct  charm  in  itself.  On  the  whole, 
he  was  glad  that  he  was  not  to  be  further  en- 
tangled in  this  already  too  complicated  affair. 

After  Mr.  Eldridge  had  been  discoursing  on 
banking  for  an  interminable  half  hour,  Newbold 
caught  sight  of  a  black  dress  moving  toward  them. 

"Why,  there  is  Madame  du  Pont!"  he  ex- 
claimed, rising. 


190         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"What  brought  you  back  so  soon,  Emilie?" 
asked  Mr.  Eldridge  as  Madame  du  Pont  came  up 
the  steps  alone. 

"  Old  age.  Uncle.  I  found  myself  unable  to 
keep  pace  with  Joyce  and  Doctor  Dilke.  I  went 
to  the  cascades;  but  I  had  no  courage  for  the 
church.  They  insisted  on  coming  back  with 
me ;  but  I  would  not  let  them  come  beyond  the 
turn  of  the  path." 

"Please  sit  down  here,"  urged  Newbold, 
moving  a  chair  where  the  sunlight  was  falling 
full. 

"Thank  you,  but  the  light  is  rather  bright 
there." 

"  You  should  always  sit  in  a  blaze  of  sunshine. 
You  seem  a  part  of  it." 

"I  think  I  will  walk  a  little,  myself,"  said 
Mr.  Eldridge.  No  one  attempted  to  dissuade 
him,  and  he  strolled  away  with  a  freshly  lighted 
cigar.  When  he  was  gone  Newbold  drew  his 
chair  nearer  Madame  du  Pont. 

"  This  is  perhaps  the  last  time  that  I  shall  see 
you  alone  before  you  sail.  That  is  nothing  to 
you;  but  it  is  a  great  deal  to  me.  You  do  not 
care  for  me.     Tell  me  why." 

"We  are  too  different,  my  friend." 

"I  might  change." 

"For  the  worse,  perhaps,  if  it  were  to  make 
you  more  like  me." 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  191 

Newbold  shook  his  head  in  quick  negative. 

"No  matter.  You  could  not  do  it  if  you 
wished  ever  so  much.  We  were  not  bom  under 
the  same  star.  I  am  a  worldly  woman.  This 
is  neither  a  confession  nor  a  boast.  It  is  the 
simple  truth.  I  should  never  be  satisfied  with 
the  life  which  you  could  offer  me.  I  worship 
success." 

"Are  the  gates  of  success  barred  to  me  for- 
ever?" Newbold  asked  with  a  smile  which  for 
once  had  something  of  bitterness  in  it. 

"Of  the  success  for  which  I  care — yes," 
Madame  du  Pont  went  on  kindly,  but  firmly. 
"You  paint  well.  You  will  paint  better;  but 
you  will  always  live  in  some  queer  comer  and 
dine  on  a  packing  box.  I  like  to  dine  on  a 
packing  box — once — I  should  hate  it  and  you 
if  I  had  to  do  it  always." 

"And  why  may  I  not  make  money  like  other 
men?" 

"  Because  you  will  not  conform.  You  will 
make  no  compromises,  and  compromise  is  the 
condition  of  success." 

"You  are  very  right,  Madame.  I  will  not 
have  success  at  that  cost.  I  will  do  my  work 
just  as  well  as  I  can  do  it.  If  the  public  will 
not  have  it — ^why,  that  is  its  own  affair.  But 
you — surely  you  can  see  that  it  is  better  for  a 
man  to  do  his  best  work  an4  taK:e  what  corner 


192         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

of  it  than  to  juggle  with  his  artistic  conscience 
and  paint  pot  boilers." 

"Oh,  it  is  not  any  violation  of  your  artistic 
conscience  for  which  I  would  ask — only  a 
greater  pliancy  in  meeting  men  and  women  and 
trying  to  please  them." 

"You,  at  least,  have  no  reason  to  com- 
plain  " 

"  No,  but  I  should  like  to  see  you  equally 
anxious  to  please  others." 

"Then  there  would  be  no  compliment  in 
it." 

"Ah!"  said  Madame  du  Pont  with  an  en- 
chanting smile,  "but  I  should  not  know,  and 
when  I  saw  you  popular,  I  should  say :  *  There 
is  a  man  whom  everyone  admires,  and  he 
admires  me.'  Then  your  admiration  would 
be  trebled  in  value.  Here  come  Joyce  and 
Doctor  Dilke." 

There  was  a  certain  relief  in  Madame  du  Font's 
tone  as  she  made  the  announcement.  Her  gift 
lay  in  skating  over  thin  ice,  and  she  felt  that  she 
was  in  danger  of  breaking  through  and  losing 
control  of  the  situation. 

Newbold  turned  quickly  at  her  words  and 
saw  the  two  advancing  toward  them.  Joyce 
was  carrying  a  bunch  of  wild  flowers  and  her 
cheeks  were  red ;  but  she  came  up  rather  eagerly 
to  join  Newbold  and  made  a  point  of  addressing 


WOMAN'S  MISSION  193 

most  of  her  conversation  to  him  till  they  took 
the  train  for  Paris. 

Newbold  himself  was  not  sorry  for  this.  He 
felt  that  all  further  talk  with  Madame  du  Pont 
was  worse  than  useless — painful  to  him  and 
incapable  of  effect  upon  her.  He  was  glad 
when  he  bade  her  good  bye  at  the  hotel  on  the 
rue  de  Rivoli,  where  she  was  to  dine  with  her 
cousin.  He  made  his  way  hastily  back  to  his 
studio,  determined  to  stifle  his  sorrows  in  work 
till  night  fell. 

On  his  table  he  found  a  letter.  He  opened  it 
with  indifference ;  an  indifference  which  changed 
to  incredulous  delight  as  he  read.  The  note 
contained  a  commission  for  the  decoration  of 
the  main  hall  in  one  of  the  largest  houses  in 
Washington,  a  mansion  to  be  occupied  on  its 
completion  by  the  Senator  who  now  wrote 
offering  Newbold  the  work,  and  giving  him 
three  months  in  which  to  complete  it. 

The  artist  laid  down  the  letter  and  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor  absently  stroking  his 
beard.  Then  he  went  to  the  comer,  drew  out 
Madame  du  Pont's  portrait  and  set  it  on  the 
easel. 

"I  know  how  this  order  came  to  me,**  he 
murmured,  half  aloud,  addressing  the  portrait. 
"  It  came  through  you,  through  some  of  yotir 
Washington    connections.     I    will   do   it   well. 


194         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCIAIMS 

You  shall  see  I  will  do  it  well,  as  if  it  were  for 
yourself.  This  is  what  your  talk  at  St.  Cloud 
meant.  You  were  trying  to  prepare  me  for 
this.  You  think  that  I  cannot  change.  Well, 
you  will  see.  To  be  the  inspiration  of  a  man's 
best  work — that  is  the  mission  of  woman, 
about  which  we  were  talking  to-day,  and  you 
are  fulfilling  it.     I  thank  you." 


CHAPTER  XI 
Strangers  and  Friends 

In  the  reading  room,  situated  on  the  ground 
floor  of  the  hotel,  and  opening  from  the  break- 
fast room,  Joyce  Eldridge  sat  one  morning 
in  the  sunshine,  reading  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Fen- 
wick. 

Joyce  was  guiltily  conscious  of  her  own  epis- 
tolary shortcomings  toward  her  aunt,  and  know- 
ing well  that  lady's  views  on  such  subjects,  she 
opened  the  letter  with  some  trepidation,  fearing 
to  find  her  sins  set  forth  with  a  force  and  direct- 
ness which  Mrs.  Fenwick  did  not  hesitate  to 
employ  toward  her  niece  when  she  thought  it 
necessary.  Affection  only  quickened  the  in- 
convenient clearness  of  her  vision,  and  faults 
which  might  have  been  pardoned  in  those 
to  whom  she  was  indifferent  were  simimarily 
dealt  with  in  the  case  of  anyone  whom  she 
loved. 

As  Joyce's  eyes  fell  upon  the  opening  words, 
she  saw  that  her  fears  had  not  been  groundless. 
The  letter  was  dated  "Old  Field,  September 
tenth,"  and  began: 

195 


196         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"My  Dear  Joyce: 

"It  seems  four  years  instead  of  four  months  since 
I  have  seen  your  face  and  heard  the  sound  of  your  voice. 
Letters  are  a  poor  substitute  for  personal  intercourse, 
and  you  have  been  rather  chary  of  even  these.  Prompt- 
ness in  letter  writing,  my  dear  niece,  is  a  shibboleth  of 
courtesy  and  should  not  be  neglected.  On  this  side  of 
the  water,  the  telephone  has  rudely  taken  the  place  of 
writing,  and  secures  the  maximum  of  trouble  to  the 
other  person  with  the  minimum  of  inconvenience  to 
one's  self,  a  principle  which  seems  to  have  found  ac- 
ceptance with  your  generation.  But  the  horrid  clang 
of  the  telephone,  which  summons  one  as  if  one  were 
a  servant,  is  better  than  the  ungraciousness  of  silence. 
I  would  rather  receive  a  souvenir  card,  that  lowest 
depth  of  infamy  in  correspondence,  than  to  hear  nothing 
and  fancy  that  you  have  quite  forgotten  me.  Write 
me  details.  Write  me  whom  you  are  meeting  and 
what  they  are  saying.  Do  not  trouble  yourself  to 
describe  the  scenery.  What  I  wish  is  to  know  all  about 
you  and  your  father  and  Doctor  Dilke. 

"From  what  you  write  of  fimilie  I  judge  that  she  has 
changed  very  little  since  I  used  to  know  her  as  a  girl. 
She  was  then  vain,  flippant  and  selfish,  and  her  marriage 
tended  to  develop  those  qualities.  She  prided  herself 
on  her  manner;  but  she  had  learned  neither  deference 
for  the  old  nor  helpfulness  to  the  young.  To  judge  a 
woman's  courtesy  you  must  observe  the  bearing  toward 
those  of  a  different  generation  or  a  different  class — 
people  from  whom  she  has  nothing  to  gain  except  good 
will. 

"Altogether,  I  confess  that  fimilie  du  Pont  is  not  a 
person  whom  I  covet  as  a  friend  for  you,  and  I  do  not 
like  to  see  you  so  strongly  attracted  to  her.     I  dare  say 


STRANGERS  AND  FRIENDS  197 

you  think  this  the  result  of  prejudice.     It  is  not — it  is 
the  result  of  judgment. 

"You  speak  of  my  belonging  to  'the  old  school.'  My 
dear,  there  is  no  old  school.  The  world  is  divided  now, 
as  it  always  has  been,  into  two  classes,  one  of  which 
believes  in  noise  and  display  and  self-advertising,  the 
other  in  a  quiet  pursuit  of  one's  own  aims  and  interests, 
with  due  regard  for  the  rights  of  others  and  an  apprecia- 
tion of  the  dignity  of  privacy.  One  class  is  prominent, 
the  other  influential. 

"I  should  be  very  sorry  to  believe  that  the  first  was 
representative  of  America,  though  it  certainly  proclaims 
itself  such,  and,  as  the  trumpets  on  its  tallyhos  and 
automobiles  give  strident  notice  of  its  approach,  no  one 
can  be  ignorant  of  its  presence.  It  is  open  to  us,  how- 
ever, to  accept  or  decline  its  association  as  we  choose. 

"In  New  York,  I  confess  that  it  is  difficult  to  escape 
from  its  contact.  It  is  bad  enough  to  live  in  a  city  which 
calls  itself  '  New '  without  having  the  fitness  of  the  term 
forced  upon  one,  by  the  garishness  of  recent  riches  and 
the  varnish  of  freshly  acquired  equipages.  But  here 
on  my  quiet  acres  above  the  Hudson,  everything  has  the 
old-time  serenity  of  Nature  herself. 

"Henry  calls  the  place  dull.  Well,  perhaps  if  the 
place  could  speak  it  would  call  him  dull.  Henry  finds  it 
necessary  to  his  happiness  to  be  constantly  occupied 
no  matter  how  little  he  accomplishes ;  to  be  moving  and 
moving  rapidly,  no  matter  in  what  direction.  The  auto- 
mobile exists  to  meet  tastes  like  his. 

"He  pities  you  for  these  months  'wasted,'  as  he  calls 
them,  in  Europe.  I  judge  from  your  letters  that  you 
are  not  greatly  in  need  of  his  sympathy.  Neither  do  I 
need  yours,  expressed  so  warmly,  for  my  rheumatism.  I 
wrote   an  account  of  my  symptoms  to  Doctor  Dilke 


198         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

partly  to  ask  for  a  prescription  and  partly  to  secure  an 
account  of  you  and  of  your  father.  His  report  of  both 
is  satisfactory. 

"I  trust  that  you  appreciate  the  advantage  of  com- 
panionship with  a  man  like  Doctor  Dilke,  *a  man  of 
parts,'  as  they  used  to  say.  At  present  he  has  learned 
too  much  from  books  and  too  little  from  life;  but  that 
will  change.  So  fimilie  du  Pont  finds  him  '  unimportant,' 
does  she?  And  what,  pray,  are  fimilie's  standards  of 
importance?  But  you  need  not  answer.  I  know  them 
of  old.     Do  not  you  be  guided  by  them,  Joyce. 

"  £milie  is  an  amusing  companion  in  her  thin,  tinkling, 
little  way,  but  a  poor  counsellor  and  a  poorer  confidante. 
Take  my  advice,  and  trust  her  only  with  creditable 
secrets.  She  will  repeat  them  and  you  will  reap  the 
advantage. 

"Your  exchange  confidences  are  not  a  fair  bargain, 
for  you  are  really  frank  and  she  only  seems  so.  You  will 
notice  if  you  review  her  talk  with  care,  that  she  has  told 
you  nothing  which  she  did  not  intend  beforehand  that 
you  should  know.  Her  anecdotes  of  herself,  however 
refreshingly  discreditable  in  the  beginning,  always  take 
on  a  rose-coloured  light  in  the  end.  Worse  than  that,  I 
have  sometimes  had  occasion  to  observe  that  they  were 
inaccurate,  and  nothing  is  so  underbred  as  untruth- 
fulness. 

"  I  do  not  ask  you  to  be  suspicious.  I  only  advise  you 
to  be  watchful.  The  Scriptures  command  us  to  love  our 
enemies,  but  not  to  trust  them.  I  do  not  go  so  far  as  to 
consider  fimilie  an  enemy,  but  I  do  regard  her  as  a 
dangerous  friend." 

Joyce  paused  in  her  reading,  and  sat  looking 
down  thoughtfully  at  the  toes  of  her  slippers. 


STRANGERS  AND  FRIENDS  199 

"Aunt  Sylvia  is  prejudiced.  She  is  very  unfair 
to  Emilie,"  the  girl  said  to  herself.  Then,  after 
a  moment's  reflection,  she  added,  "However, 
it  is  as  well  to  be  on  one's  guard." 

At  this  point  in  her  reflections,  she  looked 
up  and  saw  Dilke  standing  by  the  table,  idly 
turning  the  pages  of  the  latest  Figaro. 

His  eyes  met  Joyce's  glance.  He  crossed  the 
room  and  took  a  chair  beside  hers. 

"You  have  letters  from  home?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  one  from  Aunt  Sylvia." 

"Does  she  speak  of  her  rheumatism?" 

"Only  incidentally,  but  she  speaks  of  you." 

"Indeed!  Mrs.  Fenwick's  comments  are  so 
trenchant  that  I  hesitate  to  ask  what  she  says." 

"Oh,  she  speaks  cordially,"  Joyce  replied. 
"She  always  does  speak  cordially  of  you;  but 
she  says — I  wonder  if  she  would  object  to  my 
telling  you  what  she  says " 

"  Now  you  must  tell  me,  or  I  shall  imagine  the 
worst." 

"  It  is  not  so  bad — in  fact,  it  is  not  bad  at  all. 
She  says  that  you  are  '  a  man  of  parts '  (isn't  that 
a  good  old-fashioned  phrase!);  but  that  you 
know  less  of  life  than  of  books." 

Dilke  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"May  I  ask  in  what  connection  the  remark 
was  made?"  he  queried. 

"In  comparing  you  with  Emilie,"  Joyce  said 


200         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

after    a    moment's    hesitation.     "Aunt    Sylvia 
does  not  appreciate  Emilie " 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  that.  It  is  the  clash 
"^not  only  of  temperaments,  but  of  epochs- 
Madame  du  Pont  is  the  essence  of  the  modem 
spirit  against  which  Mrs.  Fenwick  is  a  living 
protest.  Then  they  have  common  experiences 
differently  treated,  which  is  always  a  barrier. 
They  are  both  widows,  but  they  wear  their  rue 
with  a  difference.  Mrs.  Fenwick  thinks  that 
Madame  du  Pont  has  no  heart,  because  she 
finds  so  much  worth  while  in  life  after  her  hus- 
band's death.  Madame  du  Pont  considers  that 
Mrs.  Fenwick  has  no  philosophy  because  she 
finds  so  little  under  similar  circumstances." 

Joyce  looked  up  with  a  demure  smile. 

"It  rankled,  I  see " 

"Rankled?    What  rankled?" 

"Aunt  Sylvia's  remark.  You  are  willing  to 
show  by  your  insight  into  character  that  you  are 
not  so  unskilled  in  real  life  as  she  thinks,  and 
you  are  not  unwilling  to  have  the  remark  re- 
peated to  her  as  a  neat  revenge." 

Dilke  coloured  with  vexation. 

"I  have  been  impertinent  and  ridiculous," 
he  exclaimed.     "  I  thank  you  for  stopping  me." 

Joyce's  manner  changed  instantly. 

"  It  is  I  who  have  been  impertinent,"  she  said. 
"We  have  been  thrown  together  so  intimately 


STRANGERS  AND  FRIENDS  201 

that  I  cannot  help  forgetting  sometimes  that  I 
am  talking  to  a  stranger." 

If  Joyce  intended  to  punish  Dilke  for  his 
resentment,  she  succeeded  beyond  her  wish. 
He  grew  suddenly  pale,  and  repeated  her  last 
word. 

"A  stranger?  Yes,  I  suppose  I  am  that.  But 
even  strangers  may  be  something  to  each  other. 
The  greatest  encouragement  which  I  ever  re- 
ceived came  to  me  in  my  hour  of  need  from  a 
stranger." 

Something  in  Dilke 's  tone  touched  his  com- 
panion. Her  look  softened  and  she  leaned  for- 
ward, clasping  both  hands  over  her  knee. 

"And  when  was  that?"  she  asked. 

"  It  was  once,  in  a  crowd,  when  I  was  feeling 
peculiarly  forlorn  and  discouraged.  I  saw  a 
face — a  very  beautiful  face,  but  cold  and  utterly 
indifferent  as  it  turned  toward  me.  Later  it 
fell  in  my  way  to  do  its  owner  some  trifling  ser- 
vice and  she  thanked  me  with  a  smile  which 
changed  the  colour  of  life  for  me,  and  made  me 
feel  that  in  what  seemed  an  unfriendly  world, 
there  might  be  a  latent  friendliness  ready  to  be 
called  out  if  occasion  offered.  That  girl  will 
never  know  what  she  did  for  me " 

"What  a  pity!"  Joyce  exclaimed.  "It  is 
like  the  passing  of  Pippa.  How  much  it  would 
mean  to  her  if  she  could  know! " 


202         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"No,"  Dilke  answered,  looking  down,  "I 
don't  think  that  she  would  care.  The  thought 
of  me  as  an  individual  probably  never  crossed 
her  mind.  The  smile  was  simply  the  expression 
of  an  habitual  graciousness." 

"I  will  think  of  that  girl  after  this,"  Joyce 
said  reflectively.  "When  I  am  tempted  to  be 
sarcastic  or  uncivil,  as  I  was  just  now,  I  will  try 
to  cultivate  a  habit  of  graciousness ;  so,  you  see, 
your  Pippa  has  done  me  good  too." 

Joyce  rose  as  she  spoke.  "  I  think,"  she  said, 
"that  I  will  go  to  my  room  and  write  to  my 
aunt,  since  we  leave  to-morrow.  The  letter 
must  reach  home  a  few  days  before  I  do,  else 
my  welcome  will  not  be  as  warm  as  I  could  wish." 

"Before  you  go,"  Dilke  questioned,  "would 
you  be  willing  to  withdraw  that  objectionable 
word  'stranger'  which  you  applied  to  me  a 
minute  ago?" 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  Joyce  answered.  "  It  was 
an  absurd  word  to  use  after  all  our  weeks  of 
intimate  acquaintance " 

"'Acquaintance'  does  not  satisfy  me  either," 
Dilke  rejoined.  "Could  you  not  stretch  your 
conscience  and  your  vocabulary  to  the  point  of 
calling  me  a  friend?" 

Joyce  looked  at  him  with  the  unselfconscious 
gravity  of  a  child.  "I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
have  you  a  friend,  if  you  wish  it,"  she  said. 


STRANGERS  AND  FRIENDS  203 

"But  I  must  warn  you  that  my  standards  of 
friendship  are  somewhat  exacting." 

"  I  trust  you  will  not  find  that  mine  fall  below 
them." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  find  mine  exaggerated." 

"What  are  these  terrifying  demands,  may  I 
ask?" 

"The  chief  is  candour,  a  much  more  far- 
reaching  candour  than  that  for  which  one  looks 
in  an  acquaintance.  The  amount  of  truth  that 
can  be  told  between  two  people  is  the  measure 
of  their  friendship." 

"Let  us  agree  upon  that  basis  then,"  Dilke 
responded  with  a  ring  of  cordial  satisfaction  in 
his  voice.  "And  since  it  will  not  do  to  shadow 
the  beginning  of  our  candid  friendship  with  even 
a  trifling  deceit,  let  me  make  a  confession " 

"Go  on — I  am  waiting,"  Joyce  said  with  a 
rising  flush. 

"The  story  which  I  told  you  a  while  ago — of 
the  stranger,  you  remember " 

"  Yes,  don't  tell  me  that  she  was  not  real! " 

"  She  was  real.  She  was  all  that  I  said.  What 
I  omitted  to  mention  was  that  the  stranger  was 
you.'' 

Joyce  raised  her  eyes  with  an  expression 
difficult  to  translate. 

"Since  we  must  be  candid,"  she  replied,  "let 
me  make  my  confession — I  knew  it  all  the  time." 


CHAPTER  XII 

Homeward    Bound 

DiLKE  stood  with  Joyce  Eldridge  watching 
the  wake  left  by  the  vessel  as  she  steamed  out 
of  the  harbour  of  Hamburg.  The  sky  was 
grey-blue,  the  water  blue  also,  but  of  a  deeper 
shade.  The  shores  danced  backward  with  the 
rise  and  fall  of  the  vessel  as  if  they  had  motion 
and  were  leaving  instead  of  being  left.  The 
band  was  playing  on  the  deck,  and  everything 
combined  to  give  an  air  of  festivity  to  this  de- 
parture. But  neither  Dilke  nor  Joyce  was  in 
holiday  humour. 

"  It  is  like  the  letting  down  of  the  curtain  after 
the  play,"  Joyce  said,  "watching  Europe  fading 
out  of  sight  like  that." 

"Yes,"  Dilke  answered;  "and  the  worst  of  it 
is  that  the  end  of  the  play  means  the  beginning 
of  work." 

"  I  wish  that  it  did  for  me.  You  have  no  idea 
how  empty  a  woman's  life  seems  when  all  this 
travel  and  sight-seeing  comes  to  an  end  and 
there  is  nothing  to  take  its  place." 

"But  you  have  your  housekeeping." 
204 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  205 

"Yes;  but  I  am  not  needed — not  really- 
needed  at  home.  A  housekeeper  could  do  it 
as  well  and  better." 

"  You  are  very  necessary  to  your  father." 

"You  really  think  so!"  exclaimed  Joyce, 
brightening  visibly. 

"Why,  yes,  anyone  can  see  that.  His  first 
question  wherever  he  appears  is:  'Where  is 
Joyce?'" 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  you  tell  me  that.  It  gives 
me  more  courage  for  things  which  are  quite  hard 
to  bear  sometimes." 

"I  know — I  know,"  Dilke  responded  with 
S3mipathy  in  his  voice.  Turning  to  look  at  her, 
he  saw  tears  standing  on  the  dark  fringe  of  her 
eyelashes. 

"Poor  Httle  girl!"  he  said,  laying  his  hand 
over  hers  on  the  railing.  "You  must  let 
me  tell  you  just  this  once,  my  friend,  how  I 
have  watched  you  all  these  months  and  how  I 
have  admired  your  patience  and  wisdom  and 
self-control." 

"I  thank  you,"  Joyce  answered,  looking  up 
into  his  eyes,  and  not  trying  to  withdraw  her 
hand  from  that  friendly  protecting  clasp.  "  I 
thank  you  more  than  I  can  say." 

When  Dilke  lifted  his  hand  it  was  shaking. 
Words  trembled  on  his  lips,  but  he  choked  them 
back. 


206         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Come,  come!"  he  said,  striving  to  force  a 
smile.  "  It  will  not  do  to  begin  the  journey  in 
this  spirit.  We  must  try  to  make  the  voyage 
the  joUiest  part  of  the  trip." 

As  he  turned  away  from  Joyce,  he  was  con- 
scious that  Brandyce  was  standing  at  his  elbow 
and  touching  him  lightly  on  the  arm. 

"Are  these  your  field  glasses?"  Brandyce 
asked. 

"No,  they  are  not  mine,"  Dilke  answered. 
"Miss  Eldridge,  may  I  present  Captain  Bran- 
dyce, of  whom  I  was  speaking  to  you? " 

To  himself  Dilke  was  saying:  "Confound 
Brandy ce's  impudence!  Those  field  glasses  are 
his  most  cherished  possession,  but  he  means  to 
lose  no  time  in  meeting  Miss  Eldridge." 

Joyce  raised  her  eyes  to  Brandyce's  face,  and 
then  a  quick  wave  of  colour  spread  over  her 
own.  "  Why ! "  she  exclaimed,  "  you  are  Eustace 
Brandyce.  I  had  no  idea  that  it  was  you  of 
whom  Doctor  Dilke  was  talking." 

"Yes,"  said  Brandyce,  "I  recognised  you  at 
once.  I  wished  to  know  if  you  remembered  me 
after  all  these  years." 

"  Does  a  girl  ever  forget  her  first  party? " 

"You  mean  that  fancy-dress  party  for  chil- 
dren at  my  uncle's  a  dozen  years  ago." 

Joyce  nodded. 

"  It  was  my  first  visit  to  America,"  Brandyce 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  207 

said.  "I  remember  wondering  why  boys  and 
girls  enjoyed  themselves  so  much  more  there 
than  in  England,  and  wishing  that  I  need  never 
go  home." 

"I  had  no  idea  that  you  were  English.  I 
thought  then,"  Joyce  added,  with  a  pretty, 
flattering  intonation,  "that  I  disliked  the 
English." 

"Banish  that  thought  at  once!"  exclaimed 
Brandy ce.  "Let  me  start  at  least  without 
prejudice  in  your  mind.  As  for  your  not  dis- 
covering that  I  was  English,  I  am  rather  proud 
of  that,  for  even  at  that  early  age  I  determined 
not  to  carry  my  insularity  about  with  me  like 
the  brand  on  a  broncho.  I  wished  to  be  Amer- 
ican in  America  and  French  in  France.  One 
gets  more  in  that  way.     Don't  you  think  so?" 

Dilke  stood  by,  stupefied  by  finding  that  this 
introduction  which  he  had  dreaded  the  necessity 
of  making  was  taken  out  of  his  hands,  and  liking 
the  situation  none  the  better  for  that  fact. 
When  Brandy  ce  finished  speaking,  Dilke  said: 
"  Since  you  and  Miss  Eldridge  are  old  acquaint- 
ances, I  will  leave  you  for  a  few  moments  while 
I  attend  to  the  steamer  trunks.  They  have  a 
trick  of  getting  into  the  hold  if  they  are  not 
watched."  As  he  turned  away  he  saw  that  the 
two  returned  at  once  to  their  talk. 

"How  it  all  comes  back  to  me!"  Joyce  was 


208         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

saying.  "  It  was  one  of  the  mortifying  experi- 
ences of  my  life." 

''Mortifying?" 

"Yes.  Your  cousin  Janet  did  not  want  me. 
She  naturally  thought  that  two  guests  from  the 
same  family  were  enough,  and  Henry  and  my 
cousin  Emilie,  who  was  visiting  us  for  a  week, 
were  going;  but  your  uncle  said:  "Joyce  shall 
come  if  I  have  to  dance  with  her  myself." 

"Janet  always  was  selfish,"  said  Brandy ce. 

"Not  at  all.  It  was  her  party,  and  she  did 
not  wish  it  spoiled  by  the  intrusion  of  a  child  of 
twelve  among  people  of  the  proper  age.  'The 
proper  age '  varies  with  the  views  of  the  speaker. 
To  Janet  it  suggested  fifteen  or  sixteen.  The 
only  grudge  I  bore  against  Janet  was  for  repeat- 
ing that  humiliating  remark  of  your  uncle's  to 
Henry.  Henry  never  had  delicate  perceptions. 
He  told  the  family  and  the  family  laughed.  I 
did  not." 

"Henry  was  a  brute,"  assented  Brandyce 
sympathetically.  It  was  wonderful  how  his 
spirits  were  rising  under  this  recalling  of  old 
times.  "Did  you  really  object  to  that  speech 
of  my  uncle's?" 

"Object!  If  the  party  had  not  been  'fancy 
dress'  my  pride  would  have  kept  me  at  home. 
As  it  was,  I  hesitated.  If  a  party  were  over 
when  it  was  over  it  would  not  have  been  so  bad; 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  209 

but  I  knew  that  Henry  and  Emilie  would  be 
talking  over  this  one  all  through  the  week,  while 
I  should  sit  by  ignorant  and  ignored." 

"Of  course  you  could  not  do  it.  It  was  not 
to  be  considered  for  an  instant." 

"Thank  you.  It  is  a  comfort  to  feel  that 
there  was  some  excuse  for  my  lack  of  self- 
respect.  *  Fancy  dress '  proved  too  alluring  to 
my  imagination  and  I  yielded.  Emilie  was  to 
be  a  court  lady  in  a  satin  dress  of  my  mother's 
with  Roman  pearls  and  real  lace.  Henry  was 
to  appear  as  the  Duke  of  Modena.  Just  why 
'Modena'  I  never  knew;  but  it  seemed  to  add 
the  finishing  touch  of  aristocracy  to  his  black 
velvet  suit.  I  had  nothing  to  wear.  That 
was  an  argument  for  staying  at  home.  Henry 
and  Emilie  made  it  evident  that  they  wished  I 
would.  That  was  an  argument  for  going — but 
why  am  I  telling  you  all  this  in  the  midst  of 
bustle  ?   It  is  most  egotistical  and  inappropriate. ' ' 

"It's  perfectly  delightful!"  exclaimed  Bran- 
dy ce  with  emphasis.  "  Nothing  in  years  has 
made  me  feel  so  young.  Let  us  take  these  two 
chairs  out  of  the  crowd.  Now  please  continue, 
and  remember  everything  that  you  can.  Then  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  remember.  It  will  be  like 
*The  Ring  and  the  Book.'  " 

"Shall  I  really  tell  all  that  I  remember?" 
Joyce  responded.     "I  believe  I  will,  for  I  like 


210         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

talking  about  the  time  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
In  fact,"  Joyce  admitted  candidly,  "  I  am  afraid 
I  like  talking  about  myself  in  general. 

"  I  remember,"  she  continued,  *'  it  was  decided 
that  I  should  go  as  Bo  Peep — in  my  old  white 
dress.  Of  course  it  was  short ;  but  shepherdesses 
always  showed  their  feet  and  ankles,  and  then  I 
thought  the  crook  wound  with  blue  ribbons  en- 
chanting. Henry  said  that  it  looked  like  a 
barber's  pole ;  but  he  was  in  a  bad  humour.  It 
crowded  the  carriage  and  nearly  broke  the  win- 
dow, but  it  arrived  in  safety. 

"We  came  down  stairs,  all  together.  Emilie 
looked  beautiful  with  her  red  cheeks  and  auburn 
hair;  but  I  do  think  her  long  gown  helped  her. 
At  any  rate,  she  was  seized  upon  at  once  and  car- 
ried off  by  a  prince  in  light  blue.  I  stood  still  and 
waited — simply  waited.  That  was  all — nothing 
happened.  I  wished,  oh,  how  I  wished  that  I  had 
never  come!  But  I  endured  the  suspense  fairly 
well,  till  I  saw  your  uncle  bearing  down  toward 
me.  Then  I  clutched  Henry's  arm,  though 
before  I  left  home  I  had  resolved  on  no  account 
to  appeal  to  him.  But  this  was  no  time  for 
niceties  of  behaviour. 

"'You  will  dance  this  with  me,  won't  you, 
Henry?'  I  implored.  Henry  looked  at  me  with 
the  air  of  one  who  had  known  all  along  how  it 
would  be. 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  211 

"'Yes,'  he  said,  'I'll  dance  this  once;  but  I 
don't  want  to  get  stuck  with  you.' " 

"He  did  not  say  that!'' 

"  Oh,  yes.  It  is  the  privilege  of  one's  family 
to  say  what  other  people  only  think.  I  assured 
Henry  that  I  should  not  mind  being  left  alone 
after  the  first;  but  I  did.  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  let  Henry's  arm  go.  At  length  in 
one  of  our  turns  we  came  opposite  my  crook, 
which  I  had  left  propped  against  the  wall.  Here 
Henry  stopped  firmly.  *  You'd  better  sit  down,' 
he  said,  as  one  who  has  borne  enough. 

"*0h,  Henry,  are  you  going  to  ask  another 
girl?'  I  asked.  *No,'  he  answered  scornfully. 
(You  know  how  Henry  despised  the  sex  until  he 
began  to  fall  in  love.)  '  I  don't  like  talking  to 
girls.  I'm  going  over  to  talk  to  Eustace  Bran- 
dy ce  by  the  door  there.'" 

Brandyce  nodded,  smiling  at  the  picture  which 
rose  in  his  mind;  but  he  would  not  risk  inter- 
rupting the  narrative. 

"I  asked  Henry  to  bring  you  over  where  I 
was;  but  he  assured  me  that  you  wotildn't 
like  it. 

"'He  might,'  I  ventured;  but  Henry  crushed 
me  by  retorting:  'It's  his  uncle's  house — I 
guess  if  he  wanted  to,  he'd  come  over  without 
an  invitation.'  There  was  no  resisting  the 
pitiless  logic  of  this  remark,  and  I  clasped  my 


212         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

crook  in  cold  fingers  and  watched  my  last  hope 
disappear  with  Henry." 

"What  a  memory  you  have!"  exclaimed 
Brandyce,  lost  in  admiration. 

"Oh,  one  remembers  well  when  things  are 
branded  in.  Emilie  was  dancing  in  the  court 
quadrille;  but  I  had  no  room  in  my  heart  for 
envy.  My  soul  was  too  full  of  the  sinking  sense 
of  failure.  All  that  I  asked  now  was  to  escape 
your  uncle's  gaze.  He  would  dance  with  me 
if  no  one  else  would!  Oh,  why  had  I  not  stayed 
at  home  and  improved  my  mind! 

"  I  crept  into  a  comer  behind  the  curtain  and 
wiped  my  eyes  with  the  end  of  the  blue  bow  on 
my  crook;  but  nobody  took  any  notice,  and  at 
last  the  supper  march  began  and  all  the  Jacks 
and  Jills  walked  gaily  past  me.  But  the  worst 
of  all  was  when  your  uncle  rose  up  in  front  of 
me  as  big  as  a  house  to  my  startled  vision,  and 
with  a  voice  that  I  was  sure  could  be  heard  in 
the  supper  room  called  out:  'Hulloa!  How's 
this?     Has  Bo  Peep  lost  her  sheep?' 

"  When  he  said  that  I  saw  what  a  fool  I  had 
been. 

"  Of  course  that  crook  was  an  unlucky  symbol 
of  sheep  lost  and  not  to  be  recovered  in  the  whole 
unhappy  evening.  Before  I  could  think  of  any- 
thing to  answer,  your  uncle  beckoned  to  you. 
'Here,  Eustace,'  he  called,  'take  this  sheepless 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  213 

young  shepherdess  into  the  other  room  and  get 
her  some  supper!'  Then  I  looked  up  and  saw 
you  standings  there.  Now  you  tell — that  is,  if 
you  remember." 

"I  remember  perfectly,"  said  Brandyce. 
"When  you  came  in  I  thought  that  you  were 
quite  the  prettiest  girl  at  the  party.  I  wished 
to  ask  you  to  dance,  but  you  looked  so  young, 
I  was  afraid  people  would  laugh  at  us.  At 
seventeen  it  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  laughed  at. 
I  remember  we  discussed  the  subject  of  age  at 
supper  and  you  descanted  on  the  dreadfulness 
of  being  young,  and  I  tried  to  cheer  you  with 
assurances  that  it  was  a  trouble  one  outgrew; 
but  you  said  that  it  did  not  happen  till  you  were 
old  and  had  ceased  to  care. 

"  Then  we  talked  about  schools  and  the  diffi- 
ciilties  of  Latin,  and  finally  it  was  arranged  that 
I  should  walk  to  school  with  you  next  day  and 
carry  your  books." 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes !  "  exclaimed  Joyce  gleefully.  "  I 
shall  never  forget  the  pride  with  which  I  told 
Henry  about  that.  It  increased  his  respect  for 
me  so  that  he  told  mother  when  we  reached 
home  that  I  had  done  very  well  at  the  party — 
toward  the  end." 

Dilke  came  back  from  his  oversight  of  the 
luggage  to  find  them  still  talking  there,  appar- 
ently forgetful  of  everyone  and  everything  but 


214         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

themselves — on  those  easy  terms  which  child- 
ish acquaintance  gives  in  later  years.  His  heart 
sank  as  he  observed  it.  He  stood  at  a  little 
distance  and  studied  Brandyce  more  closely 
than  he  had  ever  yet  done — studied  him  to 
classify  his  own  impressions  and,  if  possible,  to 
gather  some  idea  of  how  Joyce  Eldridge  would  be 
impressed. 

Brandyce 's  face  was  long  and  narrow  and  clean 
shaven.  The  strong  lines  about  the  ear  and  jaw 
showed  to  their  best  advantage.  His  hair  had  a 
dash  of  premature  grey  which  seemed  an  outward 
token  of  experience  of  the  world.  His  speech 
with  its  mellow  tone,  its  full  vowels  and  careful 
consonants,  told  unmistakably  of  his  upbringing 
among  men  and  women  who  could  afford  time 
for  the  niceties  of  language,  and  who  were  not 
hurried  into  mumbled  utterance. 

His  manner  conveyed  the  impression  of  repose 
with  latent  energy.  He  never  wasted  effort. 
When  a  thing  was  to  be  done,  he  did  it  with 
astonishing  quickness  and  immediately  was  at 
rest  again,  impassive  as  if  there  would  never  be 
a  call  for  future  action. 

His  face  gave  large  scope  for  interpretation, 
and  offered  many  interrogations  to  the  observer. 
Was  the  slightly  receding  chin  weak  or  delicate? 
Was  the  thin-lipped  mouth  sensitive  or  treacher- 
ous?   Were  the  narrow  grey  eyes  watchful  or 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  215 

furtive?  The  answers  to  these  questions  varied 
not  only  with  the  individual  making  of  them, 
but  with  the  varying  moods  of  that  individual. 
Dilke  was  never  twice  of  the  same  mind  in  regard 
to  them.  He  was  by  turns  repelled  and  at- 
tracted, wavering  and  baffled.  A  question  put 
by  Joyce  led  Dilke  to  draw  nearer. 

"  How  could  you  bear  to  leave  the  army  ?  "  she 
was  asking.  "  To  me  it  has  always  seemed  the 
most  fascinating  of  careers." 

Dilke 's  curiosity  was  aroused  and  he  waited 
with  some  impatience  for  Brandyce's  answer, 
■which,  when  it  came,  was  non-committal. 

"Army  life  has  its  fascinations,  certainly,"  he 
said,  "  but  it  has  its  limitations,  too,  and  very 
irritating  they  become  after  a  while.  A  man  is 
never  his  own  master,  you  see,  which  is  some- 
times very  vexatious,  and  then  there  is  a  gypsy 
strain  in  my  blood  which  makes  wandering 
more  attractive  than  marching.  I  could  not 
give  up  for  a  lifetime  the  ability  to  rove  about 
the  world  at  my  own  sweet  will." 

"That  I  can  understand  perfectly,"  Joyce 
responded.  "  I  often  wonder  at  the  dull  content 
with  which  people  settle  down  to  a  life  in 
one  place,  a  life  of  bondage  to  their  belong- 
ings." 

"YeSj"  said  Brandyce,  "I  never  see  a  gypsy 
encampment  without  a  thrill  of  admiration  for  a 


216         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

race  which  has  learned  the  art  of  living  without 
possessions." 

"  Your  friends  do  not  seem  to  have  outgrown 
the  taste  for  acquiring  the  possessions  of  others," 
said  Dilke,  moving  a  step  nearer  Joyce  and 
joining  in  the  talk. 

Brandyce  laughed.  "Oh,  for  the  most  part 
they  only  pick  up  stray  horses,  and  you  must 
admit  that  horses  belong  by  a  process  of  natural 
selection  to  nomads  rather  than  to  dull  tillers 
of  the  soil  who  live  in  the  same  smug  house 
generation  after  generation.  A  mule  is  quite 
enough  for  their  needs." 

"Here  comes  Emilie!"  exclaimed  Joyce.  "I 
suppose,  from  her  expression,  that  I  have  bor- 
rowed something  of  her  and  forgotten  to  return 
it.  I  am  afraid  that  is  the  strain  of  gypsy  blood 
in  my  veins.  What  is  it  now,  Emilie  ?  By  the 
way,  let  me  introduce  Captain  Brandyce.  My 
cousin,  Madame  du  Pont.  Now  I  am  ready  to 
be  tried  by  court  martial.     What  have  I  done? " 

"Only  left  the  keys  of  your  trunk  and  mine 
on  the  dressing  table  of  your  room  in  the  hotel 
at  Hamburg." 

Joyce's  eyes  grew  round  with  horror. 

"  I  did!  I  did!  It  is  all  true,"  she  exclaimed. 
"  You  should  never  have  trusted  me  with  them, 
Emilie." 

"  You  may  remember,''  said  her  cousin,  "  that 


HOMEWAED  BOUND  217 

I  objected  to  lending  you  my  key;  but  you 
begged  to  put  a  hat  in  the  top  tray  of  my  trunk, 
and  called  down  maledictions  on  your  head  if 
you  forgot  to  return  the  key." 

"The  curse  has  fallen.  I  am  a  convicted 
felon.  I  can  only  appeal  to  the  mercy  of  the 
court." 

"The  court  pronounces  you  guilty,"  said 
Brandy ce,  "and  deputes  Doctor  Dilke  to  serve 
your  sentence  by  interviewing  the  ship's  car- 
penter, borrowing  a  chisel  and  opening  the 
tnmks  by  force,  while  you  on  arriving  in  New 
York  shall  pay  a  locksmith  to  repair  Madame 
du  Font's " 

" '  O  wise  young  judge,  O  excellent  young 
man!'"  exclaimed  Dilke.  "Come,  Madame,  let 
us  go  and  investigate  first  what  can  be  done  with 
my  keys." 

To  himself  he  said:  "I  wish  that  other 
matters  were  as  easily  set  right  as  this." 

Dilke  returned  in  a  short  time;  but  when  he 
joined  the  group  Brandyce  turned  away,  and 
lighting  a  cigar,  went  forward,  where  he  stood 
alone  gazing  out  to  sea  and  watching  the 
vessels  as  they  passed  into  port. 

The  meeting  with  Joyce  Eldridge  had  recalled 
vividly  to  Brandyce  the  days  of  his  youth  when 
life  seemed  full  of  infinite  possibilities  which 
had  now  narrowed  to  few  and  doubtful  lines. 


218         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

He  was  much  addicted  to  self-accusations  in 
the  intervals  of  giving  occasion  for  them;  but 
he  had  reached  the  dangerous  stage  where  he 
could  dwell  upon  the  mistakes  of  the  past  with- 
out gathering  from  them  the  bitter  tonic  which 
gives  cogency  and  compelling  force  to  resolu- 
tions for  the  future. 

There  were  certain  passages  in  his  life  which 
he  kept  under  lock  and  key,  and  would  no  more 
voltmtarily  draw  out  for  contemplation  than 
he  would  choose  a  skeleton  as  a  dinner  guest. 
His  self-reproaches  were  always  vague  and 
tempered  with  a  feeling  that  he  had  been  the 
sport  of  circumstances,  and  that  fate  had  dealt 
hardly  with  a  well-meaning  fellow. 

To-day,  as  he  reviewed  events,  he  told  himself 
that  all  his  misfortunes  dated  from  his  going  into 
the  army;  that  that  had  played  the  mischief 
with  his  life.  The  career  was  not  fitted  for  him, 
but  he  had  chosen  it  to  please  his  mother.  It 
had  been  a  sacrifice. 

Had  it  really  been  the  sacrifice  he  thought  it? 
Who  shall  say  ?  Do  we  not  all  look  back  to  some 
renunciation  as  the  cause  of  our  falling  short  of 
the  mark,  and  comfort  ourselves  with  the 
thought  that  all  that  followed,  even  if  it  cul- 
minated in  sin,  was  but  the  crabbed  fruit  on  the 
tree  of  virtue? 

These  few  moments  of  talk  with  Joyce  had 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  219 

left  him  dissatisfied.  Why  had  this  girl  come 
suddenly  into  the  field  of  his  vision,  to  give  him 
a  glimpse  of  heights  which  he  might  have 
gained,  to  recall  his  old  ambitions? 

Meanwhile,  in  the  stateroom  below  the  deck 
where  Brandyce  was  standing,  Madame  du  Pont 
lay  stretched  out  in  her  berth  taking  the  after- 
noon rest  without  which  she  held  that  no  woman 
could  do  credit^  to  herself  on  sea  or  land.  Her 
slippered  foot  protruded  from  one  of  those 
French  confections  of  lace  and  silk  which  in  their 
elaboration  suggest  that  the  wearer  must  be 
either  a  singularly  fragile  well  person  or  a 
singularly  healthy  invalid. 

Joyce  Eldridge,  propped  by  pillows,  sat  on  the 
sofa  opposite  with  hands  clasped  behind  her 
head.  The  ship  was  pitching  now  and  the  waves 
slapped  the  porthole,  leaving  it  wet  and  stream- 
ing. 

''What  do  you  think  of  this  Captain  Bran- 
dyce?" Madame  du  Pont  asked. 

"I  have  not  had  time  enough  to  think  any- 
thing yet." 

"The  thoughts  which  you  take  time  to  have 
are  of  no  account.  It  is  first  estimates  which 
are  trustworthy.  Then  the  photographic  plates 
of  the  mind  are  fresh  and  not  blurred  by  a  com- 
posite impression," 

"But  you  see  in  a  way  my  impression  of 


220         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Captain  Brandy ce  was  composite.  I  had  met 
him  before." 

"  I  thought  that  when  you  were  in  Paris  you 
were  eager  to  meet  him  as  a  new  experience." 

"  I  was;  but  when  I  did  meet  him  I  found  that 
I  had  known  him  as  a  boy  when  he  was  visiting 
in  New  York." 

" Did  you  Hke  him  in  those  days? " 

"Immensely!  But  I  don't  know  whether 
that  is  to  be  set  down  to  the  credit  of  his  charm 
or  of  my  inexperience.  You  see,  to  a  very  young 
girl,  a  boy  has  a  glorious  individuality.  He  is 
not  yet  merged  into  a  type.  In  fact,  I  think 
he  really  has  more  personality  than  ten  years 
later." 

Madame  du  Pont  played  with  her  rings,  and 
regarded  her  slender  fingers  and  almond-shaped 
nails  in  silence  for  several  minutes.  Then  she  said : 

"Captain  Brandy  ce  seemed  to  me  to  have 
a  great  deal  of  personality,  a  peculiarly  respon- 
sive one  at  that.  He  lends  himself  to  the  con- 
versation." 

"Lends  himself?  Yes,  but  at  a  good  rate  of 
interest.  There  is  something  in  his  eyes  that 
suggests  many  things  unsaid.  One  wonders 
what  they  are." 

"You  observed  him  closely." 

"One  naturally  does  in  meeting  an  old  ac- 
quaintance newly." 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  221 

"Joyce,  you  analyse  too  much.  You  give 
yourself  room  for  no  natural  emotions." 

The  girl  opposite  raised  herself  from  her 
pillow  and  pushed  back  the  hair  from  her  fore- 
head. "Emilie!"  she  exclaimed  with  more 
energy  than  the  occasion  seemed  to  warrant, 
"do  you  know  what  it  is  to  live  in  the  top  of 
your  mind  because  you  do  not  dare  to  dive 
down  deep,  because  you  are  afraid  of  what  you 
might  find  there?" 

Madame  du  Pont  looked  at  her  with  astonish- 
ment. This  phase  of  Joyce  Eldridge's  character 
was  so  new  to  her  that  she  could  not  conceal  the 
surprise  which  showed  itself  in  her  face.  Joyce 
detected  it  and  instantly  withdrew  behind  her 
customary  guard  of  triviality.  "  Yes,"  she  went 
on,  "I  sometimes  feel  as  I  do  at  home  when  I 
know  that  the  cellar  needs  cleaning,  and  rather 
than  investigate  I  go  out  and  buy  a  new  piece 
of  bric-a-brac  for  the  drawing  room.  I  hope, 
by  the  way,  Emilie,  that  when  we  are  in  New 
York  you  will  help  me  to  rearrange  our  rooms. 
They  are  so  stiif,  so  barren,  compared  with 
yours.  You  have  a  genius  for  conversational 
arrangement  of  furniture.  No  wonder  that  you 
have  successfiil  evenings!  The  chairs  seem  to 
talk  of  themselves.  I  can  fancy  them  holding 
a  salon  after  you  have  gone  to  bed." 

Joyce  did  not  stop  till  she  had  led  the  con- 


222         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

versation  to  an  entirely  safe  distance  from  the 
original  subject.  She  was  conscious  of  one  of 
her  sudden  delicate  antagonisms.  She  felt  that 
she  had  in  a  way  cheapened  herself  by  revealing 
a  real  feeling  to  a  highly  artificial  listener. 
EmiHe  du  Pont  understood  some  things.  She 
knew  how  a  room  should  be  furnished,  she 
knew  how  a  woman  should  dress,  she  knew 
how  a  man  could  be  made  comfortable;  but  to 
have  expected  of  her  the  comprehension  of  a 
genuine  emotion  was  a  stupidity  for  which 
Joyce  blushed,  and  in  the  reaction  of  anger 
against  herself  and  her  companion,  she  plunged 
again  into  the  subject  which  she  had  been  at 
such  pains  to  end,  and  asked  abruptly: 
"Emilie,  did  you  ever  feel  anything?" 
"  Feel  anything?  Heat  or  cold  or  hunger,  for 
example?" 

"No,  I  mean  feel  anything  in  your  heart." 
"  In  my  youth  I  felt  quite  too  much.  I  found 
it  inconvenient.  I  learned  that  cultivating 
sensitiveness  was  cultivating  points  of  attack. 
I  discovered  the  superior  advantages  of  emotions 
which  remain  under  control,  the  more  subtle 
forms  of  grief  which  have  a  perfume  of  melan- 
choly, the  secondary  pleasures  which  like  sec- 
ondary colours  are  more  satisfying,  more  lasting 
than  the  primary  ones." 

Joyce   raised  her  eyebrows.     "That  is  the 


HOMEWARD  BOUND  223 

fatilt  which  I  find  in  you.  You  play  at  life  as 
Marie  Antoinette  played  at  farming  in  the 
Trianon  gardens.  You  make  real  people  seem 
bucolic,  real  feeling  a  clumsiness." 

Madame  du  Pont  only  smiled  and  answered 
lightly: 

"  Calomniez!  Calomniez!  II  en  reste  tou jours 
quelqueckose  y 

"It  is  not  a  calumny.     It  is  the  truth." 

"  Ah!  That  is  spoken  like  your  friend  Doctor 
Dilke.  He  identifies  himself  with  the  cause 
of  truth  till  he  cannot  tell  which  is  which." 

"There  it  is!"  Joyce  exclaimed  with  rising 
temper.  "You  do  not  like  him  because  he  is 
real.  He  does  not  'lend  himself  to  conversa- 
tion,' as  you  say.  He  assumes  that  you  have 
a  firm  conviction  or  a  genuine  desire  for  enlight- 
enment when  you  make  a  statement  or  ask  a 
question." 

"What  a  droll  point  of  view!  I  should  take 
my  convictions  to  a  debating  society,  my 
ignorance  to  a  dictionary  or  an  encyclopedia. 
When  I  seek  a  man's  society  it  is  to  get  at  his 
personality." 

"Or  to  impress  him  with  yours." 

"Quite  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  my  dear. 
Mutual  impressions  are  the  raison  d'etre  of 
society.  Now  I  will  tell  you  something.  If 
Doctor  Dilke  could  rid  himself  of  his  super- 


224         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

fluous  reality,  I  should  begin  to  take  a  distinct 
interest  in  him." 

"And  I  should  lose  mine." 

"You  have  one,  then." 

"  I  take  an  interest  in  everyone  whom  I 
meet,"  Joyce  answered,  conscious  that  keen 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  her.  "The  world  is  fiill 
of  delightful  problems  in  human  form,  person- 
alities which  attract  and  repel  by  turns." 

"  Your  interest,  then,  is  purely  psychological. 
You  feel  no  tremors,  no  thrills? " 

What  Joyce's  answer  might  have  been  is 
purely  conjectural,  for  at  this  moment  Madame 
du  Font's  maid  knocked  at  the  door,  asking 
what  robe  madame  would  wish  laid  out  for 
dinner,  and  Joyce  went  to  find  her  father  and 
inquire  what  arrangements  he  had  made  for 
seats  at  table. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
A   Game  -of    Chess 

The  steamer  which  Mr.  Eldridge  had  selected 
was  a  slow  one.  The  screws  seemed  to  turn 
with  a  quiet  tenacity  of  purpose,  keeping  steadily 
at  their  task,  but  with  no  undue  haste  in  achiev- 
ing their  ultimate  goal. 

The  days  came  and  went  monotonously,  un- 
marked save  by  the  sounding  of  the  fog-horn, 
the  betting  on  the  log,  the  sighting  of  other 
vessels  and  the  endless  game  of  human  nature 
which  goes  on  by  land  and  sea,  but  perhaps 
most  intensely  by  sea. 

One  evening  Dilke  saw  Joyce  walking  the 
deck  alone,  her  face  white  and  her  brows  knit. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  nothing,  nothing  at  all,"  but  her  lips 
quivered.  She  held  to  her  self-control  with  an 
effort,  but  it  was  obvious  that  she  was  suffering 
physical  pain.  As  she  answered,  Dilke  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  bandaged  finger. 

"What  is  this?"  he  asked,  still  more  im- 
peratively; "  I  insist  upon  knowing." 

"  I  remember  of  old  that  when  you  insist  upon 
225 


226         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

knowing  you  will  know,  so  I  may  as  well  tell  the 
whole  story  and  furnish  another  instance  of 
my  contumacy." 

Joyce  tried  to  smile,  but  the  result  was  rather 
pitiful. 

"Go  on,"  Dilke  commanded,  his  lip  caught 
between  his  teeth. 

"  I  had  opened  my  porthole  in  defiance  of  the 
steward's  orders.  I  had  endured  the  air  of  that 
cabin  till  I  was  perishing  for  lack  of  breath,  so 
I  opened  the  porthole,  and  a  wave  came  in  as 
the  steward  had  said  it  would.  I  tried  to  close 
the  window  hastily  and  my  finger  was  crushed, 
as  it  deserved  to  be.     That  is  all." 

"All!  Quite  enough,  I  should  say.  And 
why  did  you  not  come  to  me  at  once  instead  of 
binding  it  yourself  and  doing,  perhaps,  no  end 
of   harm?" 

"I  did  not  bind  it  myself;  I  went  to  the 
ship's  doctor." 

"The  dickens  you  did!  The  ship's  doctor  is 
a  good  fellow.  May  I  ask,  however,  why  you 
preferred  his  services  to  mine  ? " 

"Oh!"  said  Joyce,  avoiding  the  dark  glance 
bent  upon  her  and  fixing  her  eyes  on  the 
lifeboat  ahead.  "Don't  you  remember  how 
we  agreed  there  on  Lake  Geneva  that  you 
were  Papa's  physician  and  not  mine,  and 
that     if    my    health  ever  suffered    from    my 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  227 

carelessness,  I  should  consult  a  doctor  of  my 
own?" 

"  I  remember  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  neither 
do  you,"  Dilke  answered  with  scant  civility; 
"but  this  is  no  time  for  quibbles  or  recrimina- 
tions. I  must  see  that  finger.  Is  Madame  du 
Pont  in  her  cabin? " 

"I  believe  so.  She  left  the  deck  some  time 
ago." 

"Let  us  go  down  there,  and  I  will  join  you 
v/hen  I  have  found  my  bag  with  its  dressings 
and  antiseptics." 

"Very  well,"  Joyce  answered,  turning  toward 
the  companionway.  "  But  probably  when  you 
look  at  my  finger,  you  will  find  the  matter  of 
small  consequence  and  wonder  why  I  made  such 
a  bother  about  it." 

"I  hope  so,"  Dilke  replied,  shortly,  as  he 
turned  in  the  direction  of  his  room. 

A  few  moments  later  he  was  unwinding  the 
bandages  about  the  finger  and  swearing  in- 
wardly because  he  could  not  prevent  his  own 
hands  from  trembling.  Joyce  too  was  trembling 
and  her  face  was  pale.  When  Dilke  spoke, 
however,  his  tone  was  cool  and  professional. 

"An  ugly  bruise,"  he  said;  " a  little  more  and 
you  would  have  lost  the  top  of  your  finger.  As 
it  is,  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  save  even  the 
nail;  but  it  must  be  looked  to  each  day,  and 


228         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

this  is  not  the  proper  dressing  at  all,  though  I 
ought  not  to  say  it  of  another  man's  work." 

"And  what  shall  /  say  to  the  other  doctor?" 
queried  Joyce  with  sudden  embarrassment. 
"He  told  me  to  let  him  see  it  to-morrow." 

"Tell  him  that  the  dressings  came  off  and  I 
replaced  them.  Tell  him  whatever  you  choose. 
But  I  shall  speak  to  him  myself,  and  I  do  not 
think  that  he  will  ask." 

Madame  du  Pont  looked  up  with  something 
like  admiration  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  play  the  surgeon  as  masterfully  as  you 
play  at  chess,"  she  said. 

"  Both  are  games,  Madame.  Quickness  and 
decision  are  the  main  points." 

As  he  spoke  he  finished  the  treatment,  swiftly 
reapplied  the  bandages  and  without  another 
word  turned  and  left  the  stateroom. 

For  a  long  time  after  binding  the  finger 
Dilke  wandered  up  and  down  the  deck  in  sullen 
misery,  thinking  of  Joyce  and  of  Brandy ce 
and  of  his  own  duty  to  each.  Turn  where  he 
would  he  could  see  no  opening.  In  vain  he 
asked  himself  what  the  ideal  man  would  do  in 
his  place.  Perhaps  he  was  too  far  from  the 
ideal  himself  to  grasp  in  imagination  the  course 
that  such  a  man  would  follow. 

He  might  go  to  Brandyce  and  say :  "  Will  you 
tell  the  truth  about  yourself  to  Joyce  Eldridge, 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  229 

or  shall  I  do  it  for  you?  I  admit  all  the  obliga- 
tion under  which  I  lie,  all  the  seeming  falseness 
in  betraying  one  to  whom  I  owe  so  much;  but 
the  truth  must  be  told." 

Then  he  fancied  Brandyce  turning  smiling, 
sarcastic  eyes  upon  him  and  saying:  "My 
dear  Judas,  exactly  what  is  the  truth  to  which 
you  refer?" 

He  knew  that  he  should  be  dumb  and  abashed 
before  that  question,  to  which  he  had  no 
answer. 

He  might  talk  with  Mr.  Eldridge  and  put  h  m 
on  his  guard  by  a  judicious  hint  or  two;  but 
hinting  was  not  in  Dilke's  line.  That  form  of 
attack  is  the  art  of  meaner  men.  Moreover,  Mr, 
Eldridge  required  heavy-handed  measures  to 
make  him  see  a  situation,  and  the  situation 
once  seen,  he  would  never  end  till  he  had  probed 
it  to  the  bottom,  turned  on  the  searchlight  of 
investigation  baldly  with  neither  tact  nor  mercy, 
and  at  the  end  there  might  be  only  himself 
pilloried  as  a  traitor  to  his  friend. 

Then  his  thoughts  turned  to  Joyce — turned 
to  her?  Did  they  ever  turn  away?  Did  they 
not  cling  to  her  as  a  man  clings  to  a  live  wire 
which  he  cannot  let  drop  though  the  death 
agony  convulses  every  muscle? 

If  he  spoke  to  Joyce  herself  he  had  no  obtuse- 
ness  to  fear.     Her  intelligence  would  dart  like 


230         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

a  hound  upon  the  scent,  if  he  threw  out  the 
faintest  suggestion  of  his  suspic^ions.  But  she 
too  would  demand  proofs,  where  he  had  none  to 
give,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not  meet  the 
scorching  scorn  of  her  glance,  if  she  detected  in 
some  quiver  of  his  tone,  some  unguarded  word, 
some  trembling  of  the  fingers,  that  he  too 
loved  her. 

His  fancy  pictured  her  with  her  head  turned 
a  little  to  one  side  as  she  often  sat,  and  the 
delicate  mockery  of  her  mouth  as  she  would  ask: 

"And  is  it  wholly  disinterested,  this  betrayal 
of  the  man  who  saved  your  life,  or  do  you  throw 
out  these  dark  hints  because  you  fear  that  he  is 
winning  the  prize  for  which  you  would  give 
your  life?" 

Of  course  he  knew  that  those  would  not  be 
her  words;  but  such  would  be  the  purport  of 
her  speech,  and  he  told  himself  that  there 
would  be  truth  in  it.  He  was  not  disinterested. 
He  knew  it,  and  hard  as  he  tried  to  hold  the 
balance  of  justice  even,  he  could  not  tell  how 
far  he  was  influenced  against  Brandyce  by  the 
very  fact  of  Joyce's  preference  of  him.  His 
own  dislike  had  grown  day  by  day,  and  yet  with 
no  more  cause  than  it  had  in  the  beginning. 
Surely  that  was  a  sign  of  hallucination  such  as 
he  should  recognise  in  any  man  who  came  to 
consult  him  as  a  patient. 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  231 

At  last  he  decided  that  silence  and  inaction, 
the  hardest  achievements  for  a  man  of  strong 
will  and  eager  activity,  must  be  his  course. 
But  oh,  the  bitterness  of  it  all! 

The  next  few  days  were  a  period  of  the  deepest 
heart-searching  that  Dilke  had  ever  known 
Hitherto  he  had  always  supposed  that  for  an 
honest  man  the  path  of  life  must  be  tolerably 
clear.  He  might  find  it  difficult  to  do  right ;  but 
he  must  always  be  able  to  see  clearly  what  was 
the  right  if  he  had  strength  to  do  it.  Now  he 
found  with  surprise  that  there  were  many 
faces  to  duty,  and  many  questions  involved  as  to 
the  person  to  whom  one  owed  the  highest  duty. 

From  the  moment  of  Brandyce's  meeting  with 
Joyce  Eldridge  he  had  devoted  himself  to  her, 
at  first  with  the  easy  "  God-bless- the-ladies " 
air  which  marks  the  manner  of  the  military  man 
the  world  over,  and  which  therefore  gave  Dilke 
no  uneasiness.  But  as  the  days  went  on — those 
long  shipboard  days  which  count  for  weeks  and 
months  in  the  opportunities  which  they  offer 
of  intimate  acquaintance— his  attentions  took 
on  a  far  more  serious  and  personal  character. 
This  new  interest  seemed  to  brush  aside  the 
characteristics  of  cynical  trifling,  to  reveal  the 
man  of  action  and  the  man  of  race. 

Dilke  found  himself  speculating  as  to  whether 
he  had  ever  known   the   real   Brandy ce.     He 


232         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

could  not  wonder  that  Joyce  was  so  evidently 
attracted,  interested  and  absorbed. 

For  himself  he  saw  only  one  course  open,  and 
that  was  withdrawal.  He  was  glad  that  Madame 
du  Pont  was  on  board,  since  her  companionship 
gave  him  so  good  an  excuse  for  avoiding  all  talk 
with  Joyce.  He  did  not  count  as  talk  the  conver- 
sation which  goes  on  among  a  group  of  people 
when  remarks  are  tossed  about  like  confetti  at  a 
Roman  carnival;  the  syndicate  conversations 
without  reality  or  substance,  with  their  struggle 
after  epigram,  which  is  another  name  for  the 
clever  statement  of  an  untruth.  The  talk  which 
he  resolved  to  avoid  at  all  cost  was  the  one-to- 
one  exchange  of  sincere  opinions  and  personal 
feelings,  hot  argimient  and  free  guesses  at 
truth,  which  had  grown  to  be  natural  to  him 
in  th:)se  five  months  with  Joyce  Eldridge.  He 
missed  it  as  one  misses  food  and  drink;  but  he 
refused  it  to  himself,  as  a  man  resolved  to 
starve  pushes  away  the  plate  of  bread. 

It  seemed  to  him  that  a  malign  fate  had 
ruled  all  his  acquaintance  with  Brandyce,  im- 
planting that  instinctive  prejudice  which  made 
it  hateful  to  him  to  receive  his  life  at  the  man's 
hands,  then  forcing  unwilling  admiration  for  his 
fine  qualities,  and  finally  calling  upon  him  to 
meet  the  debt  which  he  had  incurred  by  laying 
the  better  part  of  himself  upon  the  altar  and 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  233 

watching  it  consume,  giving  up  all  that  made 
life  worth  living,  in  favour  of  the  man  who  had 
saved  his  bodily  life.  With  his  heart's  blood 
if  necessary,  he  had  sworn  to  Brandyce  to 
repay  his  obligation,  and  with  his  heart's  blood 
he  was  paying  now.  But  the  sacrifices  which 
we  are  called  upon  to  make  are  rarely  those 
which  we  have  planned  or  imagined  beforehand. 

To  the  present  sacrifice  he  could  have  nerved 
himself  if  he  had  felt  sure — perfectly  sure — that 
Joyce  would  be  happy  if  she  married  Brandyce; 
but  always  there  was  this  haunting  doubt,  this 
hesitation,  this  questioning  whether  he  were 
not  sacrificing  both  himself  and  her  to  a  quixotic 
scrupulosity. 

He  studied  the  situation  closely.  He  watched 
Brandyce  and  he  watched  Joyce.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  could  see  them  drawing  toward 
each  other  day  by  day,  and  yet  he  detected,  or 
thought  he  detected,  in  Joyce  a  shadow  of  the 
same  hesitancy  which  had  disturbed  himself  in 
his  estimate  of  Brandyce.  As  this  shadow  grew 
apparently  less,  Dilke  made  up  his  mind  that 
Joyce  had  either  wholly  dismissed  it  or  had  made 
up  her  mind  that  the  qualities  which  gave  her 
pause  were  such  as  she  could  easily  change  if 
she  married  him. 

Nothing  is  more  pathetic  to  the  onlooker  than 
the  nonchalance  with  which  girls  talk  of  alter- 


234         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ing  what  is  fundamental  in  a  man's  character, 
things  to  which  the  Ethiopian's  skin  and  the 
leopard's  spots  are  superficial  trifles. 

Dilke  looked  on  all  this  with  a  growing  sense 
of  exasperation  at  her  willingness  to  trust  her 
feelings  instead  of  pursuing  her  doubts,  and 
proving  or  disproving  them  thoroughly.  Men 
prefer  that  women  in  a  general  way  should  be 
guided  by  emotion  rather  than  by  reason;  but 
in  the  particular  case  in  hand  they  find  the 
emotional  guidance  exceedingly  irritating. 

Dilke  had  other  causes  of  depression  beside 
the  pangs  of  misprized  love.  He  was  bound  for 
his  native  land,  yet  as  he  drew  near  home  he 
experienced  none  of  the  elation  proper  to  the 
occasion.  Instead,  he  felt  that  each  revolution 
of  the  screw  brought  him  nearer  to  certain  inev- 
itable and  embarrassing  practical  problems. 

His  income  had  been  of  a  size  to  narrow  his 
activities  without  enlarging  his  opportunities, 
and  in  his  pursuit  of  enlarged  opportunities  he 
had  had  recourse  to  the  simple  expedient  of 
eking  out  income  with  capital,  drawing  upon 
the  future  with  the  confidence  which  youth 
invariably  entertains  in  that  shadowy  bank. 
There  is  a  day  of  reckoning  for  such  experiments, 
and  Dilke 's  had  come. 

When  Mr.  Eldridge  urged  this  European 
expedition  he  had  promised  Dilke  that  he  should 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  235 

not  suffer  financially,  and  had  assured  him  that 
he  would  make  it  his  business  to  help  him  build 
up  a  permanent  practice;  but  now  Dilke  expe- 
rienced a  distinct  revolt  against  dependence 
upon  his  patron,  and  resolved  to  make  Hercu- 
lean efforts  to  put  himself  on  an  independent 
footing. 

That  was  very  well  as  a  consideration  for  the 
future,  but  the  pressing  problem  was  the  occu- 
pation of  the  present.  Dilke  recalled  grimly 
the  saying  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  and  wondered 
if  even  on  a  steamer  life  might  be  led  well;  but 
he  swiftly  decided  that  it  could  not.  All  he 
could  hope  to  do  was  to  kill  time  or  at  least  to 
administer  an  anodyne  that  it  might  sleep 
through  the  next  week. 

Looking  up,  while  this  reflection  was  passing 
through  his  mind,  he  saw  Madame  du  Pont,  and 
crossing  the  deck,  he  joined  her. 

"You  do  not  feel  any  anxiety  about  Joyce's 
finger?"  she  asked,  as  they  began  to  pace  the 
deck  slowly. 

"Oh,  no.  The  trouble  has  been  taken  in 
time,  and  threatens  nothing  worse  than  a  few 
days  of  discomfort." 

"  It  was  like  Joyce  to  hurt  it  in  that  way.  She 
is  always  doing  something  headlong,  and  it  gen- 
erally results  disastrously." 

Dilke  made  no  answer.     He  did  not  find  it 


236         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

easy  to  discuss  Joyce  with  anyone,  least  of  all 
with  the  woman  beside  him. 

"  Your  friend  Captain  B  randy ce  is  a  fascinat- 
ing man,"  said  Madame  du  Pont,  breaking  the 
silence  abruptly. 

"Most  people  find  him  so,"  Dilke  answered. 

"  Yes,  there  is  something  about  him — a  some- 
thing which  only  travel  and  a  wide  acquaintance 
with  the  world  can  give." 

"That  is  very  true." 

Madame  du  Pont  darted  a  quick  glance  at 
Dilke.  As  not  infrequently  happened,  a  dim 
suspicion  haunted  her  that  he  was  amusing  him- 
self at  her  expense;  but  his  face  was  imper- 
turbable. 

" Of  course,"  she  went  on,  "a  roving  life  such 
as  Captain  Brandyce  has  led  has  its  disad- 
vantages; it  begets  a  certain  disregard  of  stand- 
ards. A  man  must  have  connections  at  home 
to  hold  him;  but  I  should  judge  that  he  had 
connections.  Such  breeding  as  his  bespeaks 
early  training.  What  is  it  the  Jesuits  say: 
that  if  they  can  have  a  child  until  he  is  seven 
years  old,  anyone  may  take  him  afterward  ? " 

"Something  like  that,  I  believe." 

"But  to  return  to  Captain  Brandyce." 

"I  knew  that  she  would  return,"  said  Dilke 
to  himself. 

"  He  was  in  the  service,  I  think  Joyce  said " 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  237 

"Yes,  he  was  in  the  service." 

"He  has  left  it,  then?  What  is  he  doing 
now?" 

"At  present  I  beheve  he  is  travelHng  as 
correspondent  for  a  London  paper." 

Madame  du  Pont  paused  and  Hfted  her 
lorgnon  to  inspect  a  passing  steamer. 

"His  position,  then — his  financial  position 
is — is  somewhat  precarious." 

There  was  neither  curiosity  nor  anxiety  in 
Madame  du  Font's  tone.  The  thing  was  admir- 
ably well  done ;  but  Dilke  read  it  in  the  light  of 
his  experience  of  the  lady's  character,  and  per- 
ceived at  once  the  direction  in  which  her  in- 
quiries were  drifting. 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Captain  Brandyce's  finan- 
cial circumstances,"  he  answered,  goaded  into 
some  irritation.  "I  seem  constantly  forced  to 
explain  that  he  is  only  a  chance  acquaintance  to 
whom  I  happen  to  be  under  a  great  obligation." 

"Yes,  I  have  heard  about  that — a  gallant 
rescue — a  most  romantic  episode.  But  no  doubt 
you  are  somewhat  informed  as  to  his  social 
standing.  Englishmen  are  so  different  from 
Americans  there.  They  are  classed  once  for 
all,  and  it  is  easy  to  know  all  about  them. 
Captain  Brandyce  carries  aristocracy  in  his 
bearing.  My  instincts  deceive  me  if  he  has  not 
good  blood  in  his  veins," 


238         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"  Yotir  instincts  seldom  deceive  you,  Madame." 

"Then  he  has  good  blood." 

"  He  has  an  uncle  in  the  Cabinet,  and,  I 
believe,  a  reversionary  interest  in  a  title " 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Madame  du  Pont,  clapping 
her  white  hands  softly.  "I  am  so  glad;  it 
would  have  been  a  terrible  blow  to  me  to  be 
compelled  to  relinquish  my  confidence  in  my 
instincts.  You  see  they  are  all  that  we  women 
have  to  guide  us." 

*'  They  seem  to  guide  in  eminently  safe  direc- 
tions," Dilke  answered.  They  had  paused  in 
their  walk,  and  he  leaned  against  the  side  of 
the  cabin  regarding  Madame  du  Pont  curiously. 
She  had  all  the  technique  of  charm,  pretty  ges- 
tiu-es  of  hand  and  wrist,  a  slow,  graceful  turn 
of  the  head,  a  captivating  trick  of  arching  eye- 
brows. Where  she  failed  to  charm  it  was  only 
because  she  failed  to  convince,  and  Dilke  had 
looked  on  at  her  little  play  from  the  wings,  where 
it  was  much  less  effective  than  from  before  the 
footlights. 

A  moment's  silence  fell  between  them. 

"  Do  you  play  chess? "  was  Madame  du  Pont's 
next  question. 

"  In  amateur  fashion,"  Dilke  responded  with- 
out enthusiasm. 

"I  challenge  you  to  a  tournament,"  Madame 
du  Pont  went  on      "I  am  a  fair  player  myself." 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  239 

"Which  being  translated,"  said  Dilke  to  him- 
self, "signifies  that  she  intends  to  leave  the 
field  to  Brandyce  and  put  me  out  of  harm's 
way." 

"I  accept  the  challenge,"  said  Dilke,  and  if 
his  eyes  conveyed  more  meaning  than  his  words, 
Madame  du  Pont  gave  no  sign.  Instead,  she 
said,  "  If  you  will  go  down  to  the  cabin  my 
maid  will  give  you  my  board.  It  would  be 
pleasanter,  don't  you  think,  to  play  here  on 
deck?" 

"By  all  means,"  Dilke  answered.  "Shall  we 
sit  over  there  where  Miss  Eldridge  and  Brandyce 
appear  to  have  found  a  comfortable  comer?" 
As  he  spoke,  he  glanced  toward  a  laughing 
group  of  which  Joyce  and  Brandyce  were  the 
centre. 

From  the  time  of  his  coming  on  board, 
Brandyce  had  been  the  idol  of  all  the  children. 
He  drew  them  to  him  as  if  he  had  been  a  pied 
piper.  They  were  enchanted  by  the  grave 
courtesy  with  which  he  treated  them,  as  if  he 
and  they  were  contemporaries  and  equals,  and 
then  he  told  such  delightful  stories  of  African 
deserts  and  Australian  gold  mines!  But  his 
most  entrancing  accomplishment  was  the  cutting 
of  paper  figures — elephants  under  palm  trees, 
endless  lines  of  camels  with  shawled  ladies  on 
their  backs,  and  still  more  thrilling,  crocodiles 


240         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

with  the  agonised  legs  of  little  boys  disappear- 
ing through  their  rapacious  jaws.  No  wonder 
that  mothers  were  compelled  to  beg  him  to  be 
less  entertaining,  or  at  least  less  exciting,  as- 
bedtime  drew  near!  No  wonder  that  the  chil- 
dren clamoured  for  his  favour,  and  clambered 
over  him,  and  fotight  as  now  for  precarious 
and  uncomfortable  seats  on  the  slippery  arms 
of  his  steamer  chair,  while  all  the  time  Joyce 
looked  on  and  followed  his  every  motion  with 
smiling  attention. 

Madame  du  Pont  followed  Dilke's  glance, 
hesitated,  as  if  considering  judicially  his  propo- 
sition to  join  the  group;  but  after  an  instant's 
graceful  indecision  remarked  that  the  sun 
would  soon  be  too  bright  there,  and  that 
they  would  be  more  comfortable  on  the  other 
side. 

Again  Dilke  bowed,  again  he  smiled.  He 
was  at  no  pains  to  disguise  from  this  fair  dip- 
lomatist that  he  understood  her  tactics.  For 
his  own  part,  he  decided  to  offer  no  obstruc- 
tions. On  the  whole,  her  scheme  fell  in  well 
enough  with  his  own  plans.  But  he  determined 
that  he  would  make  reprisals. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  Newbold's  picture  of  the 
chess  players?"  he  asked,  as  they  sat  down 
with  the  board  between  them. 

"No.     Was  it  good?" 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  241 

"Excellent.  He  paints  well.  That  is,  I 
think  so — and  you?" 

"Decidedly.  I  have  been  so  loud  in  his 
praises  that  I  have  persuaded  a  friend  of  mine, 
a  Senator  in  Washington,  to  give  Mr.  Newbold 
the  work  of  decorating  the  hall  in  his  new 
house." 

Dilke  pondered  on  this  speech,  and  on  how 
much  or  how  little  it  might  mean. 

"Do  you  prefer  to  play  with  the  blacks  or 
the  whites?"  he  asked. 

"The  blacks,  if  you  don't  care." 

"  It  is  all  one  to  me.  I  shall  need  only  a 
good  reason  for  being  defeated.  As  for  Newbold, 
I  am  very  glad  to  hear  of  this  opportunity  for 
him — very  glad  indeed — all  he  needs  is  to  be 
known." 

"  He  never  will  be." 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  does  not  care  enough  about  it.  He  has 
no  initiative." 

"Perhaps,"  insinuated  Dilke,  "if  he  married 
an  ambitious  wife  she  might  supply  the  lack." 

Madame  du  Pont  shot  one  glance  across  the 
board.  "  And  Newbold  says  her  eyes  are  neither 
hard  nor  bright,"  Dilke  thought  to  himself, 
and  wondered  if  he  could  be  so  deceived. 

"  Do  men  confide  in  each  other  as  women  do  ? " 
asked  Madame  du  Pont. 


242         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"I  do  not  know  your  sex  well  enough  to 
answer  that.  I  should  say  that  confidences 
were  rare  among  men,  especially  on  sentimental 
subjects ;  but  men  observe  each  other  and  draw 
their  conclusions." 

"Then,"  said  Madame  du  Pont,  "let  us  dis- 
cuss Mr.  Newbold  as  a  generality." 

"By  all  means !  That  is  a  form  of  vivi- 
section which  serves  the  interest  of  science 
without  permanently  injuring  the  victim;  but 
I  feel  bound  to  point  out  that  if  you  leave  your 
bishop  on  that  square  I  shall  take  it  with  my 
knight." 

"How  honourable  of  you!  I  shall  avail 
myself  of  your  generosity  and  withdraw  the 
bishop." 

"To  return  to  Newbold,"  Dilke  began  tenta- 
tively. 

"Yes,  in  that  connection  I  was  about  to  say 
that  at  my  age " 

"How  can  you  use  that  phrase,  Madame? 
It  is  only  dull  people  who  think  in  terms  of  age." 

"With  my  experience  of  life,  then " 

"That  is  better." 

"  I  feel  more  and  more  that  the  most  unhappy 
of  marriages  is  that  between  an  ambitious 
woman  and  an  unambitious  man.  It  is  like 
wedding  a  gadfly  to  a  sheep.  The  sheep  is 
in  a  state  of  chronic  annoyance  and  the  gadfly 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  243 

is  constantly  exasperated  that  she  cannot  make 
her  sting  pierce  the  wool." 

Dilke  smiled.  He  studied  the  board  for  some 
time,  moved  a  pawn  and  asked:  "  Is  there  any 
happy  marriage  for  a  gadfly? " 

"Certainly — ^with  another  gadfly." 

Madame  du  Font's  hand  hovered  over  her 
king.  Finally  with  decision  she  castled,  and 
then  said  suddenly: 

"I  seldom  make  confldences;  but  I  am 
strongly  inclined  to  make  one  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  highly  flattered." 

"A  Senator  in  Washington  has  done  me  the 
honour  to  ask  me  to  marry  him,  and  I  am  con- 
sidering the  proposal  very  seriously." 

"The  position  would  suit  you  admirably." 

"I  think  so  myself.  I  should  enjoy  the 
sense  of  power,  of  advancement.  Mr.  Newbold 
could  not  understand  that.  He  always  seems 
to  me  like  a  man  who  is  looking  at  the  view 
while  an  army  is  marching  by." 

"  Marching  where?  " 

"Toward  success,  arriving  at  some  goal." 

"  That  interests  me.  I  am  so  doubtful  some- 
times whether  there  is  any  goal  at  which  to 
arrive — whether  we  might  not  all  of  us  as  well 
sit  down  and  look  at  the  view  as  to  go  marching 
and  countermarching  and  perhaps  coming  back 
to  the  old  spot  in  the  end." 


244         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"  I  wotild  not  dispense  with  ambition  for  any 
enjoyment  to  be  had  in  views  or  anything  else." 

"No,  you  are  an  ambitious  woman.  I  have 
seen  that  from  the  beginning  of  our  acquaint- 
ance." 

"Yes,  I  am  ambitious — I  admit  it  frankly." 

Dilke  saw  that,  as  in  most  things  which 
people  admit  frankly  about  themselves,  the 
quality  struck  Madame  du  Pont  as  distinctly 
interesting.  Before  he  could  speak  she  con- 
tinued : 

"And  you  are  an  ambitious  man." 

"  I  may  be ;  but  I  do  not  make  a  boast  of  it, 
as  you  do.  I  acknowledge  it  regretfully  as  a 
defect.     Ambition  is  a  very  youthfiil  quality." 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  am  proud  of  it  and 
you  ashamed." 

"Why  on  earth  did  you  make  that  move?" 
said  Mr.  Eldridge,  who  had  come  up  and  was 
leaning  on  the  back  of  Dilke's  chair.  "You 
have  exposed  your  queen." 

"Which  ambition  leads  me  to  capture  un- 
scruptilously,"  said  Madame  du  Pont,  sweeping 
down  six  squares  with  her  bishop. 

"'By  that  sin  fell  the  angels,'"  Dilke  re- 
sponded. "The  sacrifice  of  my  queen  enables 
me  to  say  checkmate  with  my  castle." 

"It  is  your  game,  and  well  played,"  said 
Madame  du  Pont,  who  knew  how  to  lose  as  well 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  246 

as  how  to  win.  "  I  congratulate — no,  I  felicitate 
you.     But  I  will  have  my  revenge  to-morrow." 

"A  mere  accident,"  said  Dilke,  folding  the 
board.  "Your  attention  was  distracted  from 
the  game  by  conversation.  To-morrow  we  will 
play  in  silence." 

A  sailor  came  up  to  them  at  this  moment  and 
announced  that  he  had  been  sent  by  the  cap- 
tain to  ask  if  Madame  du  Pont  would  like  to 
come  up  on  the  bridge  and  look  through  his 
glass  at  a  whale  which  was  spouting  in  the  dis- 
tance. 

Madame  du  Pont  would  be  delighted. 

Dilke  watched  her  as  she  walked  away. 

"There  is  a  woman,"  he  said  to  himself, 
"  who  knows  exactly  what  she  wants  and  knows 
how  to  go  to  work  to  attain  it.  Heaven  help 
the  man  who  looks  to  her  for  love  or  sympathy; 
but  for  executive  force  I  have  never  met  her 
equal.  Poor  Newbold!  After  all,  he  is  well 
out  of  the  entanglement.  He  is  in  love  with 
an  ideal,  and  it  is  better  for  him  to  lose  all  at 
once  than  to  face  a  process  of  gradual  dis- 
enchantment day  by  day.  I  wish  that  I  knew 
of  what  Joyce  Eldridge  and  Brandyce  are  talk- 
ing." 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  question,  the  two  people 
in  his  thoughts  strolled  by.  As  they  passed 
he   caught   Brandyce's  voice   saying:     "I   can 


246         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

•understand  the  glamoiir  which  tinfamiliarity 
casts  over  the  vagrant  life  to  you,  Miss  Eldridge ; 
but  you  have  no  idea  what  it  means  to  a  man 
not  to  know  the  meaning  of  home,  nor  how  he 
envies  those  who  have  it." 

Dilke  looked  up  from  a  magazine  which  he 
was  reading. 

"Ask  Brandy ce  to  repeat  to  you  a  remark 
which  he  recently  made  to  me  about  the  Prod- 
igal Son,"  he  said. 

The  two  paused  before  his  chair,  and  Dilke  rose. 

"  Doctor  Dilke  flatters  me  by  remembering 
some  foolishness  which  I  uttered  six  weeks  ago. 
Whatever  it  was,  it  has  wholly  slipped  my 
mind,"  said  Brandyce. 

"Then  how  do  you  know  that  it  was  made 
six  weeks  ago?"  Dilke  inquired. 

Brandyce  tossed  back  his  head  and  laughed 
a  boyish  laugh.  "You  have  mistaken  your 
vocation,  Dilke,"  he  exclaimed;  "you  should 
have  been  a  barrister.  It  did  not  occur  to  me 
that  I  was  subject  to  cross-examination.  How 
do  you  get  on  with  him,  Miss  Eldridge  ?  " 

"  By  always  admitting  that  he  is  right.  I 
find  it  easiest  in  the  end." 

"Pre-cisely!"  ejaculated  Brandyce.  "That 
bears  out  an  old  theory  of  mine  that  physicians 
and  clergymen  deteriorate  from  the  professional 
necessity  of  dealing  with  women  more  than  with 


A  GAME  OF  CHESS  247 

men.  They  grow  accustomed  to  the  attitude 
of  deference  and  miss  the  invaluable  discipline 
of  contradiction  to  which  the  rest  of  us  are 
forced  to  submit  in  the  rough-and-tumble  skir- 
mish of  life.  Contradiction  is  a  mordant  which 
bites  into  our  self-esteem  like  aquafortis  and 
does  us  good." 

Dilke  ignored  the  challenge  in  Brandyce's 
words.  He  felt  that  if  he  took  up  the  gauntlet 
and  entered  the  lists  of  discussion,  he  should  be 
carried  away  to  say  more  than  he  wished,  and 
he  preferred  to  remain  neutral. 

Turning  to  Joyce,  he  said,  as  if  Brandyce's 
remark  had  not  intervened: 

"  I  never  observed  this  yieldingness  of  which 
you  speak." 

"No?"  Joyce  queried,  smiling.  "Then  you 
are  less  observant  than  I  have  given  you  credit 
for  being." 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  am  extremely  observant, 
quite  too  much  so  for  my  own  best  interests." 

Dilke  attempted  to  speak  lightly;  but  when 
there  is  a  deep  undercurrent  of  emotion  it  will 
often  find  its  way  into  the  voice,  quite  without 
the  intention,  even  against  the  will  of  the 
speaker.  Both  Brandyce  and  Joyce  felt  the 
slight  embarrassment  which  is  caused  by  an 
unexpected  note  of  seriousness  in  a  surface 
conversation. 


248         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Brandyce  made  a  movement  to  walk  on.  It 
was  his  habit  in  life  always  to  turn  his  back 
upon  awkward  situations;  but  Joyce,  with  the 
courtesy  which  was  a  matter  of  intuition  with 
her,  turned  to  Dilke,  saying:  "Will  you  not 
join  our  walk?  You  are  always  preaching 
exercise  to  me,  and  yet  you  take  so  little  your- 
self that  your  advice  will  soon  fall  into  the 
neglect  which  follows  preaching  without  prac- 
tice." 

Dilke  felt  grateful.  He  realised  the  tact  which 
had  dealt  delicately  with  a  possible  awkward- 
ness; but  he  could  not  meet  it  half  way.  His 
heart  was  too  sore,  his  nerves  still  too  unstnmg. 

"No,  thank  you,"  he  said;  "I  promised  to 
restore  Madame  du  Font's  chess  board  to  the 
safe  keeping  of  her  maid." 

With  these  words  Dilke  turned  and  went 
down  to  his  cabin,  from  which  he  did  not  reap- 
pear. He  shut  himself  up  in  solitude  to  brood 
over  the  bitterness  of  "misprized  love."  If 
the  thought  of  Joyce  had  been  a  compelling 
factor  in  his  life  before,  it  had  now  become  an 
overwhelming  passion.  To  think  of  her  with 
Brandyce  was  torture. 

Love  is  the  prototype  of  the  music  which 
Miinchausen  foimd  frozen  in  the  postboy's  horn 
waiting  for  midsummer  to  release  it.  Jealousy 
is  midsummer. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

Men  and  Women 

Joyce  and  Brandyce  were  sitting  beside  the 
skylight  of  the  cabin.  Amateur  music  was 
going  on  within.  A  young  man  with  a  large 
and  sonorous  voice  was  assuring  his  hearers 
that  if  doughty  deeds  his  lady  pleased,  right 
soon  he  would  mount  his  steed,  though  exactly 
how  he  was  to  execute  his  plan  in  midocean 
might  have  puzzled  his  audience  if  they  had 
been  less  intent  on  tone  production  and  more 
absorbed  in  the  meaning  of  the  song. 

"Do  you  sing?"  Brandyce  asked  in  answer 
to  Joyce's  amused  smile." 

"I?     Oh,  no.     I  have  no  accomplishments." 

"You  have  achievements,  then.  All  young 
American  women  have  either  achievements  or 
accomplishments. ' ' 

"I  have  neither,"  Joyce  answered.  "You 
see,  I  have  no  perseverence.  If  I  begin  a  piece 
of  embroidery  the  final  result  is  a  rusty  needle  and 
a  skein  of  tangled  silk.     I  never  finish  anything." 

"You  have  finished  one  thing,"  Brandyce 
observed. 

249 


250         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Joyce  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  second, 
and  in  that  space  of  time  decided  that  it  would 
be  less  marked  to  speak  than  to  be  silent. 

"If  I  have  finished  anything,  I  trust  it  is 
something  worth  while,"  she  said. 

"It  is  changing  a  man's  life,"  Brandyce 
answered,  and  then  to  relieve  the  tension  of 
the  situation,  he  added:  "There  is  Dilke  danc- 
ing attendance  upon  Madame  du  Pont  as  usual. 
It  amuses  me  to  see  him  so  completely  captured. 
He  has  always  been  so  loftily  superior  to  senti- 
ment." 

"Yes?"  was  all  Joyce  said;  but  her  eyes 
followed  Brandyce's  glance  to  the  companion- 
way  where  Dilke  and  Madame  du  Pont  were 
standing. 

"I  think,"  Brandyce  went  on,  "that  if  I 
were  a  woman  I  should  fall  in  love  with  Dilke." 

"What  is  it  that  attracts  you  so  in  him?" 
Joyce  inquired  indifferently. 

"Perhaps  it  is  the  attraction  of  opposites. 
He  has  the  qualities  which  I  lack  and  which  I 
most  admire.  Curiously  enough,  however,  the 
attraction  is  not  mutual.  He  is  far  from  admir- 
ing me." 

"He  has  spoken  to  me  of  you  with  admira- 
tion. He  told  us  the  story  of  your  saving  his 
life." 

"Ah,  he  made  too  much  of  that.     A  happy 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  251 

accident,  nothing  more.  It  is  not  his  gratitude 
that  I  want,  but  his  good  opinion,  and  I  shall 
never  have  it,  and  yet  there  is  only  one  thing  in 
the  world  that  I  should  value  more.  Probably 
I  shall  not  get  that  either.  Fate  has  played  me 
shabby  tricks  in  every  crisis  of  my  life." 

"But  surely,"  Joyce  interrupted  hastily,  the 
colour  rising  in  her  cheeks,  "  gratitude  alone  will 
insure  you  Doctor  Dilke's  good  opinion." 

"You  think  so?"  Brandyce  rejoined,  with 
smiling  scepticism  in  his  glance.  "That  shows 
how  little  you  know  of  the  world.  Gratitude, 
my  dear  Miss  Eldridge,  is  a  repelling  and  not 
an  attracting  force." 

Joyce  shook  her  head.  "Men  are  not  so 
mean  as  that,"  she  exclaimed.  "I  refuse  to 
believe  in  such  a  cynical  view." 

"And  a  woman?  She  might  be  supposed  to 
feel  gratitude  when  a  man  lays  his  love  at  her 
feet.     But  does  that  fact  make  her  like  him?" 

Brandyce  paused  and  looked  keenly  at  Joyce 
from  his  narrow  grey  eyes. 

"  The  case  is  quite  different,"  the  girl  answered. 
"  What  he  proposes  is  not  a  gift  but  a  bargain. 
He  asks  for  as  much  as  he  offers." 

Brandyce  smiled.  He  found  an  unexpected 
piquancy  in  the  mingled  frankness  and  with- 
drawal of  Joyce's  manner.  "Well,  at  least," 
he  said,  "I  shall  wish  Dilke  good  luck  in  his 


252         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

wooing."  And  again  Brandyce's  glance  turned 
toward  the  companionway. 

Madame  du  Pont  and  Dilke  had  come  up  from 
luncheon  together.  The  ship  was  bounding 
along  under  a  blue  sky,  leaving  a  black  trail 
of  smoke  to  eastward.  As  they  reached  the  deck, 
and  at  the  moment  when  Joyce  and  Brandyce 
were  observing  them,  Madame  du  Pont  paused, 
playing  with  a  heavy  chain  to  which  were  sus- 
pended a  gold  purse  and  a  lorgnon. 

"Will  you  play  chess  again  this  afternoon?" 
Dilke  asked. 

Madame  du  Pont  smiled  and  shook  her  head. 

"Not  with  you,"  she  answered.  "You  de- 
ceived me  basely.  You  affected  in  the  begin- 
ning not  to  play  well  in  order  to  increase  your 
triumph  in  the  end.  I  decline  to  be  humil- 
iated further." 

"  But  we  must  do  something.  Life  on  ship- 
board does  not  afford  a  vast  variety  of  enter- 
tainment." 

Madame  du  Pont  hesitated,  her  head  a  little 
bent.     Then  she  suggested: 

"You  might  read  aloud  to  me." 

"I  shall  be  most  happy  to  be  permitted," 
Dilke  responded. 

"You  are  more  than  permitted,  you  are 
urged,"  rejoined  Madame  du  Pont  with  just 
enough  exaggeration  to  suggest  that  it  was  a 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  253 

matter  of  no  moment  whatever.  In  the  world 
a  woman  may  only  express  interest  when  she 
does  not  feel  it.  Madame  du  Font's  manner 
was  constantly  marked  by  such  nice  adjust- 
ments. 

"And  what  shall  the  book  be?"  Dilke  asked. 

"What  are  those  two  books  protruding  from 
your  pockets  and  making  you  look  like  a  book 
agent?" 

"This,"  said  Dilke,  drawing  out  a  grey  vol- 
ume with  a  white  label,  "is  Browning's  poems. 
The  other  small  red  book  is  *  Pilgrim 's  Progress.' 
Which  will  you  have?" 

"  'Pilgrim's  Progress'!"  exclaimed  Madame 
du  Pont,  with  a  little  gasp  of  mingled  terror 
and  astonishment.  "  Why  in  the  world  do  you 
carry  that  about  with  you  ?     Are  you  religious  ? " 

"No,  Madame,"  Dilke  answered.  "That  is 
why  I  enjoy  the  work  of  a  man  who  was.  But 
there  is  another  reason  for  my  interest  in 
Bunyan's  story.  It  tells  about  a  fellow  who 
carried  a  burden  on  his  shoulders.  I  sympa- 
thise with  him." 

"  For  my  part,"  said  Madame  du  Pont,  "  I  read 
to  be  entertained,  not  to  be  instructed,  and  I 
prefer  to  hear  about  people  nearer  me,  people 
whom  I  can  understand.  Read  me  something 
from  Browning,  though  I  confess  that  I  should 
prefer  a  novel." 


254         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Dilke  bowed  and  returned  the  little  red,  worn 
volttme  to  his  pocket.  "  I  am  very  well  suited," 
he  said;  "I  like  Browning.  I  like  his  medical 
poems.     His  doctors  use  their  terms  right." 

"Let  it  be  Browning,  then." 

Dilke  moved  the  chairs  to  the  stem  of  the 
ship  beyond  the  promenaders.  He  spread 
Madame  du  Font's  rug  over  her  feet  and  ar- 
ranged the  cushions  for  her  head.  That  lady 
was  an  adept  in  the  art  of  accepting  graciously 
the  services  of  man,  which  Dilke  had  declared 
to  be  woman's  mission. 

"Have  you  any  preference?"  he  asked,  as  he 
took  the  voltmie  from  his  pocket  and  turned 
the  pages  idly. 

"  I  prefer  that  you  should  choose." 

The  truth  was  that  Madame  du  Font's  recol- 
lections of  Browning  were  rather  vague,  and 
she  did  not  care  to  show  her  ignorance. 

"We  will  try  'Andrea  del  Sarto,'  then.  Do 
you  know  it?" 

"  Not  so  well  but  that  I  should  enjoy  hearing 
it  again." 

Dilke  turned  the  leaves  till  he  foimd  the 
poem  which  he  sought,  and  began  reading : 

"  But  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia ;  bear  with  me  for  once ; 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you  wish — 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring  your  heart  ? " 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  255 

Dilke  had  a  fine  voice  and  enjoyed  using  it. 
Moreover,  as  he  read,  a  certain  dramatic  instinct 
took  possession  of  him.  He  fancied  himself  not 
the  Florentine  painter  addressing  his  faithless 
wife,  but  Newbold  talking  to  the  woman  before 
him.  So  would  Newbold  have  pleaded  for  his 
art,  so  have  striven  to  make  her  comprehend 
his  aims,  the  best  that  was  in  him,  and  so  would 
he  have  failed. 

When  Dilke  reached  the  saddest  line  in  the 
poem: 

"You  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride  in  me 
(That's  gone,  you  know)," 

he  looked  up,  half  expecting  that  Madame  du 
Pont  would  show  some  sign  of  consciousness; 
but  she  was  looking  down  and  smoothing  the 
cuffs  of  embroidered  muslin  on  her  black  sleeves. 

"Ah!"  thought  Dilke,  "that  is  an  added  bit 
of  realism.  So  Lucrezia  would  have  occupied 
herself  with  some  detail  of  finery  when  a  man 
was  breaking  his  heart  for  her  and  trying  in 
vain  to  wring  from  her  some  sign  of  sympathy." 

He  did  not  look  up  after  this,  but  read  on 
more  quietly,  though  still  to  him  it  was  Newbold 
telHng  the  story  of  failure  to  reach  the  highest 
things,  because  he  had  stooped  to  work  for 
gain  instead  of  glory,  and  all  to  please  the  wife 
who  could  not  comprehend,  cotild  not  appre- 
ciate, could  not  even  be  true. 


256         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS  j 

At  last  he  reached  the  final  words: 
"Again  the  cousin's  whistle.     Go,  my  sweet!" 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  her?"  he  asked, 
closing  the  book  and  turning  to  Madame  du 
Pont  with  a  question  in  his  eyes. 

"My  sympathies  are  very  much  aroused." 

"Yes,  everyone  must  feel  for  him." 

"  For  him?     Not  at  all— for  her." 

Dilke  looked  up  with  distinct  and  surprised 
interest. 

"Why,  please?" 

"Because  she  has  had  no  chance  to  lay  her 
side  of  the  story  before  the  world,  and  in  the 
opposition  stands  a  great  artist  backed  by  a 
great  poet.  The  odds  are  not  fair.  I  believe 
myself,  however,  that  a  good  plea  might  be 
made  for  her,  based  on  the  poem  itself." 

"And  how?" 

Madame  du  Pont  cooked  her  opinions  in  a 
chafing  dish  in  full  view  of  the  person  to  whom 
they  were  offered.  She  felt  no  need  of  a  mental 
kitchen,  and  made  no  profession  of  a  full  larder. 
She  rather  preferred  intellectual  tidbits  and 
trusted  to  the  piquancy  of  her  sauce  to  flavour 
the  original  material. 

Never  before  having  heard  of  either  Andrea 
del  Sarto  or  his  wife,  she  was  still  quite  ready  to 
dash  into   a   disquisition  on  their  rival  rights 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  257 

and  wrongs.  The  strife  for  truth  more  than 
triumph  was  quite  beyond  her  ken.  She  was 
of  the  faction  described  by  Bacon,  who  preferred 
what  might  be  said  to  what  should  be  thought. 

With  hardly  an  instant's  pause  she  answered 
Dilke's  question. 

"  Why,  you  detect  at  once  that  the  artist  was 
vain.  He  wished  her  to  be  always  coupling  his 
name  with  his  superiors  like  Raphael  and 
Michael  Angelo.  Then  he  never  asks  her  any- 
thing about  herself  or  about  what  she  is  doing. 
He  paints  away  all  day,  and  then  wishes 
her  to  sit  holding  his  hand  all  the  evening. 
Now  you  see  for  yourself  that  that  would 
make  a  very  dull  time  for  an  active  young 
woman." 

"Especially  with  the  cousin  whistling  imder 
the  window." 

"No  doubt  she  cared  for  the  cousin  because 
she  saw  that  he  cared  for  her — for  her  as  she 
really  was — ^not  idealised,  and  not  as  material 
for  pictures  to  save  models." 

"  I  can  imagine  you  this  Lucrezia,"  said  Dilke. 
"  You  would  have  been  willing  that  a  man  should 
sell  his  soul  for  you  and  you  would  have  felt,  as 
she  did,  that  he  was  well  repaid  by  a  smile  or 
by  permission  to  hold  your  hand." 

"You  think  it  is  not  in  me  really  to  care  for 
anyone?" 


258         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Perhaps  in  response  to  indifference,  not  to 
reward  passion  with  love." 

Madame  du  Pont  looked  full  at  Dilke  for  one 
instant.  He  tinderstood  now  why  Newbold 
compared  her  eyes  to  the  sea. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  as  if  seeking  to 
change  the  current  of  her  thoughts,  "what 
woman,  of  all  whom  we  know,  would  tire  soonest 
of  the  man  she  married?" 

"I  know  the  one  whom  you  have  in  mind," 
Dilke  answered  slowly. 

"Joyce  Eldridge?" 

"Precisely." 

"  I  think  so.  With  Joyce  fatuousness  is  final, 
and  with  all  due  regard  for  your  sex,  most  men 
are  fatuous  now  and  then." 

"Thanks  for  the  qualification!" 

"Yes,"  Madame  du  Pont  went  on,  not 
heeding  Dilke 's  ironical  comment;  "that  is 
why  she  admires  Mr.  Brandy ce  so  much. 
I  suppose  in  writing  to  space  and  all 
that,  he  learned  to  edit  his  remarks  so 
that  they  come  out  in  final  and  restrained 
form." 

Dilke  looked  out  to  sea  across  the  interminable 
swell  of  recurrent  waves. 

"You  would  like  to  see  that  marriage  come 
about,  would  you  not? "  he  said  at  length. 

"  The  likings  of  outsiders  have  so  little  to  do 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  259 

with  bringing  marriages  about!"  Madame  du 
Pont  answered  non-committally. 

"That  is  not  true  of  you,"  Dilke  answered, 
with  brutal  directness.  "  You  intended  to  bring 
this  one  about  from  the  moment  when  you 
heard  that  Brandyce  might  come  in  for  a  title. 
That  was  why  you  challenged  me  to  that 
chess  tournament.  You  did  not  intend  to 
leave  even  a  pawn  where  it  might  obstruct 
your  game." 

"You  think  me ?" 

"I  think  you  very  adroit.  You  resolved  at 
once  to  take  possession  of  me,  to  put  me  out  of 
harm's  way,  though  you  took  no  interest  what- 
ever in  me  personally." 

"  Perhaps  I  did  not  then.  How  did  you 
know?" 

"It  is  one  of  the  stupidities  of  clever  people 
to  underrate  the  cleverness  of  stupid  ones.  I  am 
not  quite  a  fool.  Don't  you  suppose  that  if  I 
had  chosen  I  could  have  brushed  away  your 
scheming  with  my  little  finger?" 

"You  are  a  strong  man.  That  is  why  I  ad- 
mire you." 

"It  chanced,"  Dilke  went  on,  ignoring  the 
compliment,  "that  your  plans  suited  mine, 
therefore  I  lent  myself  to  them.  At  the  same 
time  I  had  much  interest  in  watching  you  play 
the  game." 


260         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"You  despised  me,  then." 

Dilke  made  no  answer. 

"And  you  despised  me  again  for  what  I  told 
you  about  the  Senator?" 

**  No.  There  you  mistake.  I  Hked  you  for 
that.  It  was  the  first  hint  I  had  that  you  could 
be  frank," 

"And  I — I  have  regretted  it  ever  since.  You 
see  at  that  time  it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  I 
could  ever  care  what  you  thought  of  me." 

"Yes,"  said  Dilke,  "it  is  often  like  that,  is  it 
not  ?  We  play  our  parts  best  before  an  unknown 
public.  As  our  audience  assumes  personality 
it  grows  more  embarrassing." 

"You  think  me  hard  and  scheming.  Well, 
let  it  be  so.  But  there  is  one  thing  you  can  never 
know,  and  that  is  the  woman  I  might  have  been. 
What  was  that  line  in  the  poem  you  were  read- 
ing ?  *  So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we 
are ! '     Do  you  believe  in  destiny  ?  " 

"  I  believe  in  a  kind  of  destiny — probably  not 
your  kind." 

"What  kind?" 

"I  subscribe  to  the  idea  of  destiny  which 
defines  it  as  an  equation  between  temperament 
and  circumstances." 

"  That  sounds  discouraging.  There  is  so  little 
hope  of  changing  either." 

"I  don't  know.     The  struggle  is  interesting. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  261 

It  is  the  spirit  in  which  your  bom  gambler  goes 
into  the  game,  not  for  the  pleasure  of  winning, 
but  for  the  pure  enjoyment  of  play." 

"  Do  you  think  that  we  can  influence  destiny?  " 

"  More  or  less — not  only  our  own  but  that  of 
others.  I  think  that  you  could  influence  Mr. 
Eldridge's,  for  instance." 

"  I — !  influence  Uncle  Martin.  How  little 
you  know  him!  Even  Joyce  has  no  influence 
in  that  quarter." 

"She  least  of  all,  perhaps.  She  cares  too 
much  what  he  thinks.  He  needs  someone  who 
can  entertain  him,  and  yet  when  occasion  arises, 
treat  him  as  if  he  did  not  exist." 

"  But  the  trouble  is  that  on  those  occasions  he 
treats  me  as  if  I  did  not  exist.  As  for  Joyce, 
she  is  growing  intolerant.  She  is  always  looking 
about  for  some  altar  upon  which  to  sacrifice 
herself.  Her  father  suited  her  admirably  as 
long  as  he  was  a  cheerful  altar;  but  she  did 
not  like  vinegar  poured  over  her  burnt  offerings. 
What  do  you  suppose  made  Uncle  Martin  a 
pessimist?" 

"  My  dear  Madame  du  Pont,  to  make  a  pessi- 
mist out  of  an  egotist,  you  need  only  give  him 
every  wish  of  his  heart.  Philosophic  pessimism 
is  a  creed  which  many  great  men  have  reluc- 
tantly adopted  after  a  profound  study  of  human 
conditions.     Practical  pessimism  like   Mr.  Eld- 


262         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ridge's  is  a  formulated  irritation  over  trifling 
inconveniences . ' ' 

"  I  never  know  what  to  say  to  Uncle  Martin 
when  he  is  in  one  of  his  rages,"  Madame  du  Pont 
protested.  "  I  generally  change  the  subject  or 
ask  him  something  about  business." 

"Ah! "  said  Dilke.  "  That  is  why  I  want  you 
to  help  me,  because  you  know  when  to  speak 
and  when  to  be  silent.     It  is  a  great  gift." 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  help  you,"  Madame  du 
Pont  answered,  "if  only  in  return  for  the  help 
that  you  have  given  me  here."  She  pointed  the 
remark  with  a  glance  at  Joyce  and  Brandyce. 

Dilke  bit  his  lip. 

** Pardon  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  not  wish  to 
leave  you  under  a  misapprehension.  It  has  not 
been  my  intention  to  render  any  help  in  that 
quarter,  but  simply  to  remain  neutral.  I  am 
not  a  conspirator,  but  simply  an  onlooker." 

"There  was  a  time,"  Madame  du  Pont  said 
slowly,  looking  up  at  the  clouds  as  she  spoke, 
"when  I  thought  that  you  were  interested  in 
Miss  Eldridge." 

"A  strange  delusion!  And  when  did  you  dis- 
cover your  mistake?" 

"  Oh,  as  I  have  watched  you.  Your  indiffer- 
ence has  been  quite  palpable.  Even  Joyce  has 
noticed  it." 

"  Has  she  spoken  of  it? " 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  263 

"Only  in  passing.  She  said  that  yotir  man- 
ner had  suffered  a  sea  change ;  that  in  Paris  you 
had  been  so  friendly,  and  here  on  the  voyage 
you  had  seemed  positively  to  avoid  her." 

"I  should  not  suppose  that  she  would  have 
had  time  to  notice  anyone's  manner  except 
Brandyce's." 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Madame  du  Pont.  "No 
indifference  there.  His  manner  is  all  that  a 
lover's  should  be." 

While  Madame  du  Pont  was  speaking,  Joyce 
and  Brandy ce  came  up  and  joined  them.  "We 
have  come,"  Joyce  said,  "to  ask  if  you  woiild 
join  us  in  a  game  of  shuffieboard." 

Dilke  rose  with  alacrity.  He  began  to  feel 
that  a  continuance  of  his  conversation  with 
Madame  du  Pont  was  beyond  his  powers,  that 
he  was  being  stretched  on  the  rack  of  the  inquisi- 
tion, and  that  in  a  few  moments  more  he  should 
have  cried  out  his  secrets  to  the  winds  and  waves. 

"An  excellent  idea,"  he  assented;  "  let  us  go." 

Madame  du  Pont  regarded  the  interruption 
as  ill-timed,  but  no  one  would  have  guessed  her 
state  of  mind  from  the  smiling  eagerness  with 
which  she  rose  to  comply.  Before  she  could 
speak,  however,  the  ship's  doctor  came  up  rather 
hastily  and  drew  Dilke  aside.  The  others 
walked  on.  A  few  moments  later  Dilke  rejoined 
them. 


264         CLAIMS  AND  COIINTERCLAIMS 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "but  I  am  afraid  that 
you  will  be  obliged  to  find  another  man  to  make 
the  fourth  at  your  game.  A  sailor  has  fallen 
down  a  hatchway  and  broken  his  leg.  Doctor 
Vogel  thinks  it  will  be  necessary  to  amputate* 
it  —  an  ugly  job  with  the  sea  rolling  as  it  is 
now.  He  wants  me  to  help  him.  He  has 
strained  his  wrist  and  does  not  trust  himself  to 
operate. 

"Will  he  really  need  you?"  inquired  Madame 
du  Pont. 

"  Not  only  does  he  need  me,  but  we  need  some- 
one else  to  help  us  administer  the  chloroform." 

"  Can't  I  do  it  ? "  Joyce  asked  eagerly. 

"No,  no!" 

"I  am  not  in  the  least  afraid." 

Dilke  hesitated. 

"Do  you  really  think  that  you  could?  Re- 
member the  first  time  we  met." 

Joyce  looked  up  indignantly.  "  Do  you  think 
I  faint  on  all  occasions? "  she  asked.  "  I  assure 
you  that  I  am  a  reasonable  human  being  and 
quite  capable  of  conducting  myself  as  such. 
Only  try  me!" 

"Take  me,  Dilke!"  said  Brandyce. 

"Very  well,  Brandyce,  we  can  use  you  too; 
but  I  have  a  notion  that  if  Miss  Eldridge  is  stire 
of  herself,  it  will  be  a  comfort  to  the  poor  fellow 
to  see  a  woman  about.     Let  me  feel  your  hand," 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  265 

he  said,  ttiming  to  Joyce.  "  I  think  you  will  do. 
Come,  then,  both  of  you,  if  you  will." 

"The  chloroform  is  on  the  stand,"  Dilke  said 
briefly,  as  Joyce  entered  the  cabin  a  little  later, 
where  all  the  grim  preparations  for  surgery  were 
completed.  "  Put  a  few  drops  in  the  inhaler 
and  hold  it  over  the  face,  not  too  close.  Give 
him  a  little  air  at  first.  Turn  toward  his  head 
and  don't  look  round.  Now,  Doctor,  I  am 
ready  if  you  are.     Will  you  watch  the  heart?" 

Silence  reigned  in  the  little  cabin.  Joyce 
strove  to  fix  her  attention  wholly  on  the  wet 
cloth  in  her  hand.  Behind  her  she  heard  the 
drawing  of  a  knife.  An  eternity  seemed  to 
pass  while,  oblivious  of  all  that  was  passing 
around  her,  she  struggled  to  concentrate  her 
attention  on  mastering  a  horrible  sinking  sen- 
sation at  her  heart. 

"Now  lend  a  hand  with  the  dressing,"  she 
heard  Dilke  say  at  last.  Joyce  felt  blood  swim 
before  her  eyes. 

"It  is  all  over.  Miss  Eldridge,"  Dilke's  voice 
rang  out  in  reassuring  tones,  and  then  she  heard 
him  say  hastily  to  Doctor  Vogel:  "You  and 
Brandyce  get  the  man  into  his  berth!  I  will 
take  Miss  Eldridge  to  her  cabin." 

Joyce  swayed  unsteadily. 

"Take  my  arm  and  shut  your  eyes." 

Joyce  stretched  out  her  hand  blindly  and 


266         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

grasped  the  supporting  arm.     She  staggered  into 
the  corridor,  and  then  fell  to  the  floor. 

Dilke  raised  her  in  his  arms  and  strode  along 
to  her  cabin  door,  which  he  opened  with  a  kick 
of  his  foot.  He  laid  Joyce  in  the  berth  and 
dashed  water  in  her  face.  Her  eyes  opened 
slightly.     "I  was  a  fool,"  she  murmured. 

"I  was  worse  than  a  fool  to  permit  you  to 
make  such  an  experiment,"  Dilke  answered 
hotly.  "I  should  have  remembered  that  day 
in  New  York " 

"You  did  not  permit  me.  I  did  it  myself. 
And  really,  I  do  not  often  behave  so  foolishly," 
Joyce  responded  with  the  ghost  of  a  smile. 
Then  "the  fringed  curtain  of  her  eyes"  closed 
again  over  the  pale  cheek. 

Dilke  rang  sharply.  When  the  steward  came 
he  said:  "Bring  me  brandy  at  once,  and  then 
find  Madame  du  Pont  and  send  her  here." 

The  man  disappeared,  and  Dilke  knelt  beside 
Joyce,  chafing  her  cold  hands  between  his  own 
hot  ones.  Then,  overcome  by  the  tide  of  feeling 
which  swept  over  him,  he  stooped  his  head  and 
kissed  the  white  wrist.  "I  love  you,  dear!" 
he  cried,  "I  love  you — I  love  you!" 

A  rustle  behind  him  caught  his  ear,  and  rising 
hastily,  he  saw  Madame  du  Pont  standing  in 
the  doorway.  The  steward  had  executed  the 
last  part  of  the  order  first. 


MEN  AND  WOMEN  267 

Emile  du  Font's  face  was  as  white  as  the  door 
against  which  she  leaned.  Her  hair  glistened 
red  aroimd  her  pale  forehead.  Her  lips  moved, 
but  no  sound  would  come. 

Dilke  looked  at  her  with  defiant  confession  in 
his  eyes. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  love  her.  You  heard 
me  say  it  and  you  may  repeat  it  to  the 
world.  You  see  now  how  little  your  train- 
ing in  reading  a  man's  mind  amoimted  to  — 
I  love  her."  Then,  with  a  sudden  change 
of  voice:  "The  steward  is  standing  outside 
with  the  brandy.  Be  good  enough  to  hand  it 
tome!" 

Still  without  a  word,  Madame  du  Pont 
handed  him  the  flask  and  the  glass.  She 
might  have  been  an  automaton  moved  only  by 
the  will  of  the  man  before  her. 

Dilke  half  filled  the  glass  with  the  spirits, 
added  water  from  the  stand  and  forced  it  down 
the  girl's  throat.  It  did  its  work.  The  eye- 
lids fluttered  and  then  rose.  The  colour  crept 
back  to  the  white  cheek,  the  fingers  warmed 
in  Dilke's  clasp. 

"Did  I  do  any  harm?"  Joyce  asked  in  a 
weak  voice. 

"You  helped  us  to  save  a  life.  But  we  will 
talk  about  that  later." 

"Is  that  you,  Emihe?" 


268         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"It  is  I,"  Madame  du  Pont  answered  in  level 
tones. 

"I  will  leave  her  to  you,  Madame,"  Dilke 
said.  "  Open  her  dress  and  keep  her  head  low. 
I  will  see  her  in  an  hour;  and,  remember,  please, 
no  conversation." 

Then  he  went  out.  As  he  strode  toward  the 
deck,  he  muttered  to  himself:  "Now  I  have 
thrown  away  my  last  chance  of  saying  anything 
about  Brandyce." 


CHAPTER  XV 

Counterclaims 

It  was  a  grey,  sullen  day,  a  day  symbolic  of 
the  fatigue  of  the  whole  human  race.  A  fitful, 
feeble  breeze  lifted  the  fog  here  and  there 
and  scattered  it  in  whiffs  of  spray  along  the 
deck. 

On  such  a  morning  one  wakes  with  a  sense  of 
heaviness.  Time  creeps  leaden  chained  instead 
of  flying  with  spread  wings.  In  place  of  an 
hour-glass  he  carries  an  iron  weight,  and  the 
edge  of  his  scythe  is  dulled  so  that  it  cuts  no 
swift  swathe,  but  hacks  painftilly  at  the  grain 
of  life. 

Dilke  rose  early  and  stumbled  through  the 
companionway  to  a  deck  still  slippery  from  the 
sailors'  swabbing.  To  his  surprise,  he  saw 
Joyce  Eldridge  in  her  steamer  chair  with  a  cup 
of  coffee  in  her  hand.  As  it  was  the  last  day  of 
the  voyage,  he  resolved  to  put  aside  his  deter- 
mination to  avoid  her  and  to  indulge  himself  in 
one  more  conversation. 

"You  are  out  early,"  he  said,  dropping  into 
the  chair  beside  her. 

269 


270         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Yes.  It  is  not  that  I  love  the  deck  more, 
but  my  stateroom  less." 

"  You  are  none  the  worse,  I  hope,  for  yester- 
day's experiences." 

"  Not  in  the  least.  And,  you  know,  I  think 
that  such  an  experience  is  worth  all  it  costs  in 
what  it  teaches  one  of  other  people's  lives.  How 
is  the  sailor?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  coming  on  finely.  He  talks  of 
you  incessantly,  and  he  made  me  promise  to 
give  you  this.     It  is  his  chief  treasure." 

As  he  spoke,  Dilke  spread  out  on  Joyce's  lap 
a  large  red  cotton  handkerchief  covered  with 
anchors  and  with  a  border  of  shell  pattern. 

"It  is  beautiful,"  said  Joyce,  with  decision. 
"I  shall  keep  it  always.  Would  you  think  me 
imappreciative  if  I — er — ^had  it  washed?" 

Dilke  threw  back  his  head,  and  laughed  as 
he  had  not  laughed  for  weeks.  "I  believe," 
he  said,  "that  when  your  halo  is  handed 
to  you  in  heaven,  you  will  take  out  your 
handkerchief  and  dust  it,  lest  it  may  have 
been  too  promiscuously  handled  by  the  other 
angels " 

"It  might  be  a  wise  precaution.  I  will  try 
to  remember  it,"  Joyce  answered  demurely. 
"  But  I  assure  you  I  shall  cherish  this  memento 
on  earth.  It  will  remind  me  of  the  sea,  and  I 
do  love  the  sea — from  the  land," 


COUNTERCLAIMS  271 

"You  must  be  a  good  sailor  to  be  up  at  all 
in  a  swell  like  this." 

"  A  good  sailor — I?  Oh,  no!  I  rather  detest 
an  ocean  voyage.  I  feel  buffeted  and  blown 
about,  as  I  used  to  feel  after  a  discussion  with 
you  on  one  of  our  Swiss  walks." 

"  You  *  rather  detested '  those,  then,  perhaps." 

"Certainly.  So  would  you  if  you  had  been 
as  thoroughly  worsted  as  I — ^not  that  you  were 
always  right;  but  I  could  not  make  you  see 
my  point  of  view. 

"Precisely  what  was  your  point  of  view?" 

"  I  remember  only  that  I  was  very  strong 
somewhere ;  but  you  were  always  saying :  *  Don't 
you  admit  this?'  or  'Do  I  understand  you  to 
say  that?'  till  I  felt  my  feet  slipping  from  under 
me,  as  they  did  this  morning  on  the  wet  deck." 

"  I  must  have  been  very  irritating." 

"No,  not  irritating;  but  depressingly  con- 
vincing." 

"  Why  depressing? " 

"  Oh,  you  always  seemed  like  a  pilgrim  to  the 
tomb  of  truth;  reverent,  you  know,  but  as  if 
it  were  all  quite  dead." 

Dilke  smiled.  "A  few  things  seem  alive  to 
me  still,  however,"  he  said. 

"What  things,  for  instance?" 

"  It  is  too  prosaic  an  hour  of  the  day  to  men- 
tion lov^,     So  let  Tne  say  friendship,'* 


272         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Ah — so  you  think  friendship  is  an  all-day 
theme,  while  love  must  be  reserved  for  an 
occasional  sentimental  hour.  *It  follows,  then,' 
as  you  used  to  say,  that  friendship  is  the  more 
dtirable  stuff — more  lasting — ^wears  better." 

"  It  is  more  temperate,  certainly — more  sure. 
Friendship  is  a  philosophy;  love,  a  religion." 

Miss  Eldridge  balanced  her  spoon  on  the  edge 
of  her  cup — a  difficult  feat,  taking  into  accoimt 
the  motion  of  the  ship. 

"  I  understand,"  she  said,  watching  the  spoon. 
"  You  are  a  philosopher  and  an  infidel." 

"Say  rather  a  doubter  ready  to  be  con- 
vinced." 

"Do  you  think  a  man  would  do  more  for 
friendship  or  for  love?"  Joyce  asked. 

"Perhaps  he  would  do  more  for  friendship, 
but  he  woiild  endure  more  for  love.  Friend- 
ship starves  if  it  is  not  fed  by  good  will,  but 
love  can  Hve  on  astonishingly  meagre  fare." 

"There  love  and  I  part  company,"  exclaimed 
Miss  Eldridge  with  a  light  laugh,  rising  from 
her  chair  and  throwing  off  her  rug,  "for  I  feel 
a  distinctly  normal  and  friendly  appetite  for 
breakfast." 

Thus  trivially  ended  the  conversation  which 
Dilke  had  entered  upon  with  trembling  eager- 
ness. He  had  no  further  speech  with  Joyce. 
Early  in  the  day  he  saw  her  sitting  a  little  apart 


COUNTERCLAIMS  273 

from  the  others  engaged  in  earnest  and  appar- 
ently engrossing  talk  with  Brandyce.  Dilke's 
own  chair  was  so  near  that  he  coiild  not  avoid 
catching  scraps  of  their  conversation. 

"It  is  all  true,  what  you  observe  about 
subtleties  holding  us,"  Brandyce  was  saying. 
"I  am  sure  that  is  why  I  think  about  you  so 
much.  I  am  always  trying  to  match  what  you 
say  to-day  with  what  you  said  yesterday,  and 
wondering  if  they  can  be  made  to  fit." 

"Am  I  so  inconsistent  as  all  that?" 

"  I  do  not  call  it  being  inconsistent,"  Brandyce 
answered;  "I  call  it  being  fearlessly  yourself. 
But  it  seems  as  though  you  were  two  people  at 
once,  and  the  two  did  not  always  agree.  One 
of  them  rushes  on  headlong  and  impetuous, 
and  then  the  other  comes  along  and  closes  her 
lips  or  makes  some  little  formal  decorous  speech 
as  if  to  cover  up  the  impetuosity.  Do  you  not 
recognise  it  in  yourself?" 

"Yes,  I  do;  of  course  I  do.  I  feel  so  sure 
sometimes  that  a  thing  is  right  that  I  rush  in, 
and  then  in  the  middle  of  it  I  begin  to  feel  how 
foolish  it  has  all  been,  and  I  try  weakly  to  go 
back  or  to  stop  where  I  am." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  the  headlong  things  which  you 
do  that  make  people  care  for  you  so  much." 

"That  ends  it,"  said  Dilke  to  himself.  "I 
am  watching  the  close  of  the  comedy.     God 


274         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

grant  that  it  may  not  be  the  beginning  of  a 
tragedy  for  her! "  And  to  avoid  further  eaves- 
dropping he  rose  and  moved  his  chair  farther 
along  the  deck  beside  that  of  Madame  du  Pont. 

At  dinner  Joyce  did  not  appear.  Her  father 
said  that  she  had  a  headache.  Dilke  felt  a 
bitter  satisfaction  that  at  least  she  was  not 
spending  this  last  evening  in  Brandyce's  society. 

For  himself  Dilke  had  little  taste  for  company, 
and  stood  alone  by  the  railing  in  the  darkness 
chewing  the  cud  of  exceeding  bitter  thoughts. 
At  length  he  could  bear  it  no  longer — the  dark- 
ness, the  solitude,  the  thoughts.  He  lighted  a 
cigar  and  entered  the  smoking  room.  It  was 
not  an  easy  matter  for  a  man  measuring  six 
feet  two  inches  in  height  to  make  entrance  or 
exit  through  that  low  doorway,  and  he  was 
compelled  to  stoop.  When  he  raised  his  head 
the  electric  lights  half  blinded  him  after  the 
darkness  outside. 

As  his  eyes  grew  accustomed  to  the  bright- 
ness, he  saw  that  the  cabin  was  almost  empty. 
Three  men  occupied  the  centre.  The  ship's 
doctor  stood  looking  on  at  a  game  of  cards 
played  by  Brandyce  with  a  man  from  Texas, 
named  Colby.  The  Texan  was  of  thin,  wiry 
build  like  the  typical  Yankee  of  fifty  years  ago. 
His  arms  were  long  and  loose  jointed  but 
evidently  powerful,     His  face  was  shaped  like 


COUNTERCLAIMS  275 

a  hatchet,  and  two  long  front  teeth  held  down 
visibly  the  lower  lip. 

Dilke  never  knew  what  game  it  was  which 
Colby  and  Brandyce  were  playing.  He  only 
knew  that  a  roll  of  bills  lay  on  the  table  between 
them,  and  that  as  he  came  forward,  he  saw  the 
Texan  study  his  cards,  take  a  keen  look  at 
Brandyce  and  then  reach  out  toward  the  roll 
of  bills.  As  he  put  the  bills  and  cards  together 
into  his  pocket,  he  said  calmly,  turning  toward 
the  ship's  doctor:  "That  man  is  cheating. 
The  cards  are  marked  and  he  has  two  aces  in  his 
sleeve." 

As  Dilke  listened  to  Colby's  insult,  he  sud- 
denly felt  the  breath  of  the  primeval  forest  on 
his  forehead,  and  the  crackling  of  a  campfire 
was  in  his  ears.  The  fire  itself  seemed  to  leap 
in  his  blood.  He  sprang  upon  the  Texan  with 
uplifted  arm.  The  doctor  threw  himself  in  his 
way;  but  in  his  rush  of  rage  he  would  have 
brushed  him  aside  like  a  fly.  What  stopped 
him  was  Brandyce 's  extended  hand  waving  him 
away,  Brandyce's  white  face  and  Brandyce's 
shaking  voice,  as  he  said  low  and  unsteadily: 
"The  matter  is  not  worth  a  scandal.  Better 
come  away!" 

As  Brandyce  dropped  his  arm,  two  cards  were 
shaken  out  of  his  sleeve  and  lay  upon  the  cabin 
floor.     Each  bore  one  accusing  spot  of  scarlet 


276         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

on  its  face.  He  stood  for  an  instant  looking 
down  at  them.  Then  without  a  word,  he  turned 
and  went  out  into  the  night. 

Dilke  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  face  till  it 
scorched  his  forehead.  He  was  humiliated,  as 
if  he  had  done  this  thing  himself.  "Gentle- 
men," he  said,  coming  up  to  the  table,  "there 
is  nothing  to  be  said  of  the  situation.  It  is 
as  bad  as  it  can  be.  But  I  am  under  obligation 
to  Captain  Brandy ce  for  an  immense  service. 
I  should  be  glad  to  help  him  if  I  could.  I 
trust  that  you  will  not  feel  obliged  to  mention 
this — this  most  unfortunate  occurrence." 

"I'm  satisfied  if  he  is,"  Colby  observed  with 
a  sardonic  smile,  fingering  the  bills  in  his  pocket. 
"Only  I  hope  they're  not  going  to  let  him 
marry  that  pretty  girl." 

Dilke  set  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fists;  but 
he  spoke  no  word. 

"For  my  part,"  observed  Doctor  Vogel 
"it  is  for  my  interest  to  hold  my  tongue.  It 
would  hurt  the  line  to  have  it  known  that  we 
had  card  sharpers  on  board;  and  besides,  after 
the  way  you  helped  me  with  the  sailor,  I  wouldn't 
go  back  on  a  friend  of  yours." 

A  friend  of  his!  Yes,  Brandyce  was  his 
friend.  Dilke  himself  had  just  admitted  as 
much;  but  it  is  one  thing  to  call  a  man  that, 
and  another  to  have  it  said  by  a  third  party. 


COUNTERCLAIMS  277 

Dilke  made  no  answer.  He  was  sick  and 
stunned.  He  turned  on  his  heel  and  followed 
Brandyce  out  into  the  darkness.  It  was  good 
to  be  rid  of  the  lights,  of  the  odious  accusing 
presence  of  the  two  men.  He  wished  to  be 
alone  and  to  think. 

It  was  the  last  moment  that  he  would  have 
chosen  in  which  to  be  put  to  a  critical  test ;  but 
fate  seems  to  take  malign  pleasure  in  seizing 
the  occasion  when  otir  guard  is  down  and  otir 
armour  unbraced  to  spring  an  assault  upon  us. 
Happy  is  the  man  who  can  look  back  on  a 
supreme  crisis  and  feel  that  he  met  it  as  he 
would  have  wished  afterward  that  he  had 
met  it. 

As  Dilke  groped  his  way  along  the  deck,  he 
almost  ran  against  Mr.  Eldridge,  who  was  pacing 
the  deck  also. 

"Ah,  Dilke!"  he  said.  "I  am  glad  to  have 
stumbled  upon  you.  I  was  intending  to  hunt 
you  up.  The  fact  is,  I  want  to  have  a  talk 
with  you,  a  confidential  talk.  Shall  we  walk, 
or  find  seats  somewhere?" 

"Let  us  walk,  by  all  means,"  replied  Dilke, 
who  felt  that  physical  movement  was  essential 
and  that  repose  would  be  intolerable.  He  was 
grateful  for  the  onward  rush  of  the  steamer, 
as  if  its  energy  were  the  expression  of  his  own 
excited  mood. 


278         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Very  well;  let  us  walk,  then." 

Dilke  wheeled  about  and  mechanically  fell 
into  step  with  Mr.  Eldridge.  He  told  himself 
that  talk  would  be  a  relief  from  the  remembrance 
of  that  scene  in  the  smoking  room,  and  yet  he 
had  a  haunting  sense  of  trouble  in  the  air. 

It  was  a  long  while  before  Mr.  Eldridge 
opened  the  subject  on  which  he  wished  to 
speak,  and  Dilke  made  no  effort  to  help  him. 
In  fact,  he  felt  an  inward  dread  of  what  might 
be  coming,  which  made  him  long  to  turn  and 
nm  away. 

"Dilke,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge  at  last,  "I  want 
to  make  some  inquiries,  some  very  particular 
inquiries,  about  this  friend  of  yours.  Captain 
Brandy  ce." 

The  words  "  card  sharper  "  still  rang  in  Dilke 's 
ears,  and  he  answered  hastily,  "  Not  my  friend. 
You  know  I  explained  to  you  at  the  outset  that 
he  was  only  an  acquaintance." 

"Very  well.  Thpn  it  will  be  all  the  easier 
for  us  to  be  quite  outspoken  together.  I  have 
been  taken  aback  in  the  last  two  or  three  days 
to  find  how  far  things  have  gone  between 
Brandyce  and  my  little  girl.  I  have  meant  to 
watch  and  guard  her  as — as  her  mother  would 
have  wished.  But  she  always  has  men  around 
her.  She's  an  attractive  girl,  you  know;  at 
least  I  think  so?" 


COUNTERCLAIMS  279 

The  last  remark  was  put  almost  as  a  question ; 
but  Dilke's  heart  was  beating  so  quickly  that 
he  could  not  speak.     He  only  bowed. 

"  Her  manner  has  always  been  so  cool  to 
everyone,"  Mr.  Eldridge  went  on,  "that  it 
never  occurred  to  me  that  she  would  think  of 
marriage  for  years  to  come.  Yet  here  in  this 
little  week  she  has  given  her  heart  away." 

"She  has  told  you  so?" 

"  No,  she  has  not  told  me.  Indeed,  I  have 
never  spoken  with  her  on  the  subject.  Some- 
how I  couldn't — I  was  never  intimate  with 
Joyce.  Men  make  a  great  mistake  not  to  be 
intimate  with  their  children ;  it  is  so  much  harder 
to  talk  over  things.  I  suppose  the  habit  slipped 
by  in  those  years  when  I  was  shut  up  with 
myself  and  my  gloomy  thoughts;  but  that's 
neither  here  nor  there.  I  see  this  affair  going 
on  between  Joyce  and  Brandy ce,  and  I  want 
to  know  from  you  if  it's  all  right." 

Dilke's  lips  felt  stiff  and, dry,  and  his  voice 
seemed  to  come  from  over  the  starboard  rail 
as  he  answered,  striving  to  temporise: 

"From  what  I  know  of  Miss  Eldridge,  I 
should  doubt  if  anyone  could  stop  an  affair  in 
which  her  heart  was  really  engaged." 

"She's  my  daughter,"  Mr.  Eldridge  burst  out 
angrily,  "and  I  intend  to  have  some  say  about 
the  man  she  marries.    She  shall  not  marry  a  cad. ' ' 


280         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Suddenly  his  voice  broke,  and  he  said,  with 
a  tenderness  as  passionate  as  his  anger:  "You 
don't  know  how  I  love  that  child — no  one  wotild 
know  it,  I  suppose.  My  temper  has  made  a  breach 
between  us.  That  temper  has  been  my  greatest 
enemy.  It  spoiled  the  life  of  my  wife,  the  sweet- 
est woman  who  ever  lived — yes,  and  the  most 
beautiful  and  the  most  patient.  It  spoiled  her 
life,"  he  repeated,  "and  I  don't  want  Joyce's 
life  to  be  spoiled.  I  want  her  to  marry  a  man 
who  will  make  her  happy." 

Dilke  found  it  impossible  to  break  the  silence 
which  fell  as  Mr.  Eldridge  finished.  At  length 
he  managed  to  stammer  out:  "I  appreciate 
your  feelings.  I  profoundly  hope  that  your 
wishes  for  your  daughter  "will  be  realised." 

"I  came  to  you  not  for  sympathy  but  for 
help,"  Mr.  Eldridge  went  on  with  an  aggrieved 
air. 

"I  am  sorry,"  Dilke  answered,  "but  I  am 
afraid  that  I  cannot  help  you.  I  have  known 
Captain  Brandy ce  a  comparatively  short  time, 
and  I  know  nothing  of  his  past." 

"That's  not  it.  That's  not  it  at  all,"  Mr. 
Eldridge  declared  testily.  "  I  don't  expect  you 
to  know  anything  of  his  past.  The  more  ques- 
tionable a  man's  past  is  the  less  anyone  knows 
about  it.  What  I  am  asking  of  you  is  some 
information  about  his  present." 


COUNTERCLAIMS  281 

"He  saved  my  life,  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  remember  your  telling  us  about  that. 
I  have  sometimes  thought  that  Joyce's  interest 
in  Brandy ce  began  there.  She  has  always  had 
romantic  notions.  She  loves  a  hero.  That  is 
all  very  fine;  but  it  is  not  enough.  To  my 
mind,  the  central  point,  the  fundamental  qual- 
ity of  a  man's  character,  is  honesty,  as  chastity 
is  in  a  woman.  Now  what  I  want  to  ask  you 
is  this:  Whether  in  all  those  weeks  which  you 
spent  with  Brandyce  in  the  intimate  associa- 
tion of  camp  life,  you  ever  saw  anything  which 
suggested  any  shade  of  dishonesty." 

"Never." 

Mr.  Eldridge's  brow  cleared.  Perhaps  he  had 
been  harassed,  as  Dilke  had  been,  by  vague 
impalpable  suspicions.  It  was  curious  how 
Brandyce  failed  to  be  convincing  even  to  those 
who  liked  him  best. 

Mr.  Eldridge  paused  in  his  walk  and  held 
out  his  hand  to  Dilke  with  an  air  of  relief. 

"Then  I  have  your  word  for  it,"  he  said, 
"  that  you  beheve  Brandyce  to  be  an  honorable 
and  trustworthy  man,  a  safe  husband  for  Joyce  ? " 

Again  Dilke  felt  the  forest  wind  on  his  cheek, 
again  he  heard  the  crackle  of  the  campfire, 
again  his  own  words  echoed  in  his  ear:  "If 
I  can  ever  do  anything  for  you,  you  may  count 
upon  me." 


282         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"In  God's  name  how  can  I  tell!"  Dilke 
cried,  tormented  by  the  cruelty  of  a  fate  which 
was  crushing  him  between  the  upper  and  nether 
millstones  of  opposing  obligations.  But  Mr. 
Eldridge  had  no  clue  to  his  state  of  mind,  and 
went  on  thinking  aloud. 

"Of  course,  of  course,  you  can't  tell,"  he 
said.  "That  is  imposing  too  large  a  responsi- 
bility upon  any  man,  to  be  asked  to  tell  who 
would  be  a  safe  husband.  But  there  is  a  haunt- 
ing something  which  impels  me  to  question  you. 
Tell  me  simply  this :  In  all  the  time  you  have 
known  him,  did  you  ever  see  him  do  a  dishon- 
ourable act?" 

Dilke  paused  for  a  single  instant,  as  a  man  on 
the  brink  of  suicide  pauses  on  the  edge  of  the 
cataract  before  he  flings  himself  into  inevitable 
disaster.  He  decided  on  his  action  and  resolved 
to  bear  its  consequences,  consequences  not  only 
to  himself  but  to  another  dearer  than  himself. 
A  dry,  dumb  agony  paralysed  him.  He  sub- 
mitted as  if  the  weight  of  an  inevitable  destiny 
bore  him  down.  He  remembered  his  vow: 
"With  my  heart's  blood  I  will  help  you  if  I 
can. "  He  opened  his  lips  to  say  "  No , "  when  the 
thought  of  Joyce  Eldridge  rose  and  choked  him. 

The  memory  of  another  vow  loomed  before 
him.  He  saw  himself  in  his  office  in  the  grey 
dawn  tearing  in  bits  a  pasteboard  card,  and  he 


COUNTERCLAIMS  283 

heard  himself  registering  an  oath  that  never 
again  under  any  circumstances,  for  any  cause, 
would  he  soil  his  soul  with  the  shadow  of  a  lie. 

He  hesitated.  Again  the  vision  of  Joyce  rose 
before  him — Joyce  as  she  had  looked  in  the 
reading  room  of  the  Parisian  hotel  when  she  had 
accepted  his  proffer  of  friendship  and  his  promise 
of  absolute  truth-telling  between  her  and  him. 

His  hand  shook  as  if  he  had  the  palsy.  His 
cigar  dropped  to  the  slippery  deck  and  rolled  away. 

"Don't  ask  me!"  he  groaned,  and  turned 
aside  abruptly.  But  Mr.  Eldridge  caught  him 
by  the  arm. 

"  I  shall  ask  you,"  the  old  man  went  on  with 
passionate  insistence,  "and  I  expect  a  truthful 
answer  as  from  man  to  man.  No  fanciful 
question  of  gratitude  or  etiquette  can  stand 
for  a  moment  in  a  case  so  urgent  as  this.  You 
know  something  of  Brandyce  which  you  will 
not  tell." 

"Which  I  will  not  tell,"  echoed  Dilke. 

"That  silence  is  an  accusation." 

"No,"  said  Dilke,  "it  is  not.  The  man  who 
makes  an  accusation  and  refuses  proofs  is  a 
blackguard.  You  drove  me  into  this,  step  by 
step,  till  I  had  no  recourse  but  a  lie  or  refusal 
to  speak.  Now  you  may  deal  with  the  matter 
as  you  choose.  Further  I  do  not  go  for  you 
or  any  man." 


284         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

With  this  Dilke  shook  himself  free  of  Mr. 
Eldridge's  detaining  hand,  and  moved  rapidly 
toward  the  companionway.  On  his  way  down' 
to  the  cabin  he  met  Brandyce  coming  up. 
Which  face  was  ghastlier  it  would  have  been 
hard  to  tell.  Dilke  would  have  passed  without 
speaking,  but  Brandyce  barred  the  way. 

*'  I  suppose  it  is  all  over  the  ship  by  this  time," 
he  whispered  from  between  white  lips. 

"No,"  Dilke  answered  wearily.  "Neither  of 
those  two  men  will  tell.  I  took  care  of  that. 
But " 

Then  with  that  impulse  which  drives  crim- 
inals on  to  confession  because  their  burden  is 
too  heavy  to  be  borne  alone,  Dilke  went  on: 

"Mr.  Eldridge  asked  me  just  now  if  I  knew 
anything  discreditable  of  you — if  I  had  ever 
seen  you  do  a  dishonourable  thing." 

"  Thank  you,  Dilke.  You  are  a  good  friend. 
I  know  you  stood  by  me.  This  is  what  you 
meant  by  saying  you  would  pay  the  debt  of 
your  life  on  the  instalment  plan." 

A  convulsion  passed  over  Dilke's  face,  leaving 
it  stem  and  set  and  old. 

"  I  refused  to  answer,"  he  said. 

"That  was  an  answer  in  itself." 

"Yes,"  said  Dilke,  and  plunged  down  the 
stairway,  pursued  by  the  remembrance  of 
Brandyce's  glance. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DiLKE  Meets  an  Old  Acquaintance 

"  Thank  heaven  for  work ! "  This  was  Dilke's 
exclamation  as  he  seated  himself  once  more 
before  the  desk  in  his  office.  "Thank  heaven 
for  work!"  Have  we  not  all  felt  the  same 
thrill  in  our  deepest  mental  storm  and  stress? 
It  was  surely  no  spirit  of  revenge,  but  a  pro- 
foimd  pity,  which  moved  the  angel  of  the  flam- 
ing sword  to  drive  out  Adam  and  Eve  into  a 
world  of  forced  activity.  An  idle  Paradise  is 
the  saddest  of  all  abiding  places  for  those  who 
remember  and  regret. 

In  the  great  crises  of  our  lives  we  are  dom- 
inated by  some  power  seemingly  outside  ourselves 
which  makes  our  action  apparently  inevitable 
as  fate ;  but  in  the  after  days  of  relaxation  comes 
a  painful  period  of  questioning  when  we  ask 
ourselves:  "After  aU,  was  the  action  so  inev- 
itable ?  Would  not  wiser  men  have  avoided  the 
crisis  or  have  ruled  it  to  different  issues?" 

Dilke's  mind  was  full  of  such  questionings. 
He  was  conscious  of  an  oppression  which  would 
not  be  brushed  away.     When  the  ship  touched 

285 


286         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

the  dock  he  had  made  haste  to  escape  from  it 
as  from  a  pest  house.  Evil  spirits  seemed  to 
haimt  its  decks  and  cabins.  Painful  asso- 
ciations hung  about  it  from  stem  to  stem.  He 
was  thankful  that  Brandyce  seemed  as  anxious 
as  himself  to  avoid  a  meeting.  They  were  like 
two  criminals  who  dared  not  look  in  each  other's 
faces  for  fear  of  the  detection  and  reproach 
which  each  should  read  in  the  other. 

Of  Joyce  and  of  her  father  Dilke  had  almost 
an  equal  terror,  so  he  took  refuge  by  the  side 
of  Madame  du  Pont  and  stood  with  her  by  the 
forward  rail  as  the  vessel  left  quarantine  and 
moved  slowly  and  majestically  up  the  bay.  He 
had  fancied  that  with  her  at  least  there  would 
be  no  awkwardness,  no  lurking  thoughts  under- 
lying surface  speech  and  making  its  trifling  a 
mockery.  But  he  had  forgotten  the  episode  in 
the  stateroom,  the  almost  brutal  frankness  of 
his  revelation  of  his  feeling  for  Joyce.  What- 
ever the  effect  upon  Madame  du  Pont,  there 
could  be  no  question  that  it  had  made  an  entire 
change  in  her  manner.  Though  she  was  too 
much  a  woman  of  the  world  to  betray  resent- 
ment, there  was  a  distinct  withdrawal  of  all 
cordiality. 

Dilke's  mind,  however,  was  too  much  occupied 
with  other  things  to  pay  much  heed  to  her  cool- 
ness.    Everything   that   had   happened   before 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     287 

last  night  seemed  blotted  out,  a  mere  back- 
grotmd  before  which  the  terrible  events  of  the 
past  evening  stood  out  in  lurid  relief.  He  won- 
dered in  his  heart  if  other  men  on  the  ship  were 
as  miserable  as  he;  if  despair  reigned  in  other 
souls  while  smiling  lips  made  superficial  com- 
ments on  the  growth  of  the  city,  the  high 
buildings,  the  busy  wharves  of  "the  finest  har- 
bour in  the  world." 

Madame  du  Pont  spoke  with  interest,  well 
feigned  if  it  were  not  real,  of  the  changes  since 
she  had  been  in  the  country  last,  and  asked 
the  names  of  the  various  towers  and  office 
buildings  as  they  passed,  yet  perhaps  she  was 
no  less  glad  than  Dilke  when  the  ship  swung  into 
her  berth  and  the  process  of  disembarking  began. 

After  the  customs  examination,  Dilke  bade 
hasty  farewells  to  the  party.  He  experienced 
a  sense  of  immense  relief  that  the  strained 
situation  was  drawing  to  an  end.  But  when 
Mr.  Eldridge  grasped  his  hand  at  parting  and 
said:  "You  will  find  that  I  am  not  ungrate- 
ful— I  have  written  to  a  life  insurance  com- 
pany in  which  I  am  interested,  asking  to  have 
you  appointed  one  of  its  medical  directors," 
Dilke  felt  like  a  Judas  receiving  the  thirty  pieces 
of  silver  for  the  betrayal  of  a  friend. 

Even  now,  in  his  office,  he  could  not  put  the 
scene  of  the  smoking  room  behind  him,  covild 


288         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

not  help  framing  in  his  mind  the  things  which 
he  might  have  said  to  Mr.  Eldridge  afterward; 
the  evasions,  which  were  no  Hes  but  only  sup- 
pressions of  the  truth,  which  he  might  have 
produced  if  he  had  been  clever  enough.  He 
told  himself  that  there  was  deep  wisdom  in  Bun- 
yan's  allegory  which  made  the  Town  of  Stupidity 
a  near  neighbour  to  the  City  of  Destruction. 

Then  suddenly  another  mood  seized  him,  and 
he  blamed  himself,  not  for  having  spoken  the 
truth,  but  for  having  suppressed  it  so  long.  It 
was  true  that  he  owed  a  debt  to  Brandyce; 
but  did  he  not  owe  a  higher  debt  to  the  woman 
whom  he  loved  ?  Ought  he  not  at  the  beginning 
to  have  put  Joyce  on  her  guard,  to  have  let 
fall  some  hint  at  least,  which  to  a  mind  as  quick 
as  hers  would  have  been  a  danger  signal  and 
would  have  prevented  her  leaping  into  love 
for  this  newcomer  without  a  questioning,  an 
investigation,  a  period  of  probation? 

After  all,  could  any  construction  of  his  obli- 
gation to  Brandyce  be  carried  so  far  as  to 
involve  a  lowering  of  his  own  moral  standards? 
The  words  of  the  old  saint  crossed  his  mind: 
"He  who  does  an  unworthy  action  in  zeal  for 
his  friend,  bums  the  golden  thread  which  binds 
their  hearts  together."  And  Brandyce  had  not 
been  even  his  friend,  but  only  a  stranger  who 
held  this  strange  mortgage  on  his  life. 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE      289 

And  Joyce?  What,  he  wondered,  had  been 
the  effect  upon  her  of  the  revelation,  if  her  father 
had  discussed  the  raatter  with  her.  Had  she 
argued,  examined,  insisted  on  further  investiga- 
tion and  convincing  proof?  He  decided  that 
everything  would  depend  on  how  deeply  she  was 
in  love.  Surface  affection  might  be  killed  by 
doubts  cast  on  her  lover's  integrity;  but  if  she 
had  really  given  her  heart  into  this  man's  keep- 
ing, he  felt  sure  from  his  knowledge  of  her  that 
not  crime  itself  could  loosen  her  hold,  and  that 
suffering  and  ignominy  would  only  make  her  cling 
the  closer.  It  was  a  true  knowledge  of  human 
nature  which  led  a  sad  heart  to  cry  out  that  a 
woman  who  loved  could  sooner  stay  away  from  the 
Transfiguration  than  from  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

From  these  thoughts  which  constantly  tor- 
mented him,  Dilke  sought  relief  in  the  routine 
of  daily  labour,  in  looking  up  his  old  patients, 
in  study  and  in  the  sorting  of  the  mail  which  had 
accimiulated  in  the  weeks  of  his  absence,  since 
he  had  ordered  it  held. 

Among  the  first  letters  which  he  opened  was 
one  from  his  mother.     It  ran  as  follows : 

"PiERiA,  October  20th. 
"My  Dear  Tony: 

"  I  hope  you  will  be  pleased  to  hear  that  I  am  thinking 
of  paying  you  a  visit  this  fall,  if  you  can  find  me  an 
abiding  place  near  you.     I  have  been  saving  the  six- 


290         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

pences  for  the  purpose.  Even  my  beloved  grey  cat, 
who  used  to  enrage  you  by  curHng  up  in  your  arm  chair, 
has  been  included  in  the  economies  and  put  on  a  diet  of 
milk  instead  of  cream.  But  there  is  a  satisfaction 
in  economies  when  they  procure  a  great  pleasure,  so  I 
am  enjoying  mine. 

"I  wonder  if  you  have  been  thinking  of  me  as  con- 
stantly as  I  of  you  during  these  past  months  of  ab- 
sence  " 

Here  Dilke  laid  down  the  letter  and  gave 
himself  up  to  the  compunctions  of  conscience. 
Alas,  how  seldom  thoughts  of  his  mother  had 
crossed  his  mental  vision  of  late!  When  a  man 
is  living  intensely,  the  drama  of  his  own  life  is 
too  absorbing  to  be  interrupted  by  thoughts  of 
the  absent.  The  dramatis  personcs  on  the  im- 
mediate scene  occupy  his  whole  attention,  and 
the  rest  of  the  world  exists  only  in  a  haze  of 
vague  memories  and  half  perceptions. 

Now  that  his  mother's  letter  brought  her 
more  vividly  to  mind,  he  was  forced  to  confess 
that  it  was  not  with  pure  joy  that  he  thought 
of  her  and  of  her  project  of  coming  to  New 
York.  If  it  had  been  last  year!  But  no,  that 
would  not  have  suited  him  either.  He  felt  that 
he  wotild  wish  to  share  his  joys  with  his  mother. 
He  was  sure  that  he  would  wish  to  share  her 
griefs  with  her;  but  his  own  griefs  and  chagrins 
he  preferred  to  keep  to  himself. 

An  acknowledged  sorrow  may  gain  relief  by 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     291 

expression;  but  for  those  festering  inward 
wounds,  unexplained  and  unexplainable,  there 
is  no  balm  save  in  "silence  and  slow  time." 

Dilke  drew  pen  and  paper  hastily  toward  him 
and  began  a  response.  He  found  it  so  difficult 
that  he  was  compelled  to  tear  up  three  sheets  of 
paper  before  he  had  composed  a  letter  which 
satisfied  him,  and  after  all,  it  rang  false  in  his 
own  ear  as  he  read  it  over.  He  could  only  hope 
that  it  would  not  betray  itself  to  his  mother. 
He  had  emphasised  his  love  for  her,  his  apprecia- 
tion of  her  goodness  in  making  such  a  journey, 
and  he  could  not  tell  her  how  much  he  should 
look  forward  to  seeing  her.  But  it  would  be 
only  tantalising  to  have  her  near  when  he  could 
not  spend  a  great  deal  of  time  with  her.  At 
present,  he  told  her,  he  was  absorbed  in  the 
task  of  resuming  practice  and  all  the  rearrange- 
ment which  it  involved ;  but  a  little  later,  in  the 
Christmas  holidays,  perhaps,  he  should  be  more 
his  own  master,  and  then  they  would  enjoy  New 
York  together.  How  much  they  would  have  to 
say  to  each  other  and  how  much  he  would  enjoy 
telling  her  of  his  travels!  If  she  could  bring 
with  her  some  of  the  little  rose  cakes  which 
she  used  to  make  for  him,  they  would  be 
deeply  appreciated  by  her  devoted  son,  Anthony 
Dilke. 

The  letter  finished,  Dilke  folded  and  sealed  it 


292         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

with  a  sigh  of  rehef .  Then  he  betook  himself  to 
professional  business. 

Dilke  had  told  the  Eldridges  that  he  should 
not  see  them  for  some  days,  as  his  private  affairs 
would  require  regulating,  and  both  father  and 
daughter  had  assented  with  a  readiness  which 
gave  him  satisfaction  at  the  time,  but  now  he 
was  tormented  by  an  uncontrollable  desire  to  see 
Joyce  and  judge  for  himself  how  she  was  bearing 
her  trial. 

As  the  days  went  on,  he  picked  up  the  paper 
each  morning  with  a  nervous  dread,  and  turned 
at  once  to  the  society  colimm,  half  expecting  to 
read  the  announcement  of  Joyce's  engagement. 
In  a  way  he  felt  that  it  would  be  almost  a  relief, 
since  then,  at  all  events,  his  sense  of  responsi- 
bility woiild  be  at  an  end,  and  suspense  was 
worse  than  certainty. 

One  morning,  in  his  customary  search,  his  eye 
was  arrested,  not  by  the  notice  which  he  sought 
but  by  one  which  surprised  him  more — the 
announcement  of  the  engagement  of  Senator 
Jacob  Penhallow  Secor  and  of  Madame  Emilie 
du  Pont,  widow  of  M.  Caravel  du  Pont,  once  a 
Secretary  of  the  French  Legation  at  Washing- 
ton. "The  wedding,"  the  annotmcement  went 
on  to  say,  "  will  be  in  Paris  in  the  spring.  Sena- 
tor Secor  will  return  with  his  bride  to  Washing- 
ton, where  he  is  building  a  magnificent  house 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     293 

with  very  original  decorations,  which  are  the 
work  of  Mr.  Brackett  Newbold." 

Dilke  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  gasped 
with  amazement.  Jacob  Secor  married  to  Mad- 
ame du  Pont!  He  coiild  as  soon  fancy  Caliban 
wedded  to  Cleopatra.  So  this  was  the  Senator 
concerning  whom  Madame  du  Pont  had  flattered 
him  with  a  confidence  there  on  the  steamer!  He 
had  almost  forgotten  the  fact  of  Secor's  election 
to  the  Senate  following  his  successful  candidacy 
for  the  lower  house,  so  completely  had  Pieria 
and  all  its  affairs  slipped  out  of  his  life.  It  was 
all  like  a  scene  in  a  comedy  and  impossible  to 
take  seriously.  As  his  mind  rapidly  rehearsed 
his  interview  with  EmiHe  du  Pont,  he  became 
more  and  more  convinced  that  she  had  intended 
to  add  his  broken  heart  to  her  collection  of  such 
trifles.  The  conviction  both  amused  and  irri- 
tated him. 

"No,  no,  my  lady!"  he  exclaimed  half  aloud. 
"A  man  who  has  seen  the  best  and  loved  it,  does 
not  fall  victim  to  charms  such  as  yours." 

Then  he  fell  to  reviewing  Secor's  career,  and 
asked  himself  in  bitterness  of  spirit:  "Is  there 
any  success  in  America  that  money  cannot  win? 
Are  there  any  customs  so  nice  that  they  will  not 
courtesy  to  the  great  kings  of  finance?  Can  a 
man  be  so  bad  that  society  will  not  accept  him, 
if  his  rating  in  Bradstreet's  be  high  enough?" 


294         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

The  next  day  brought  him  a  note  from  Joyce 
asking  him  to  dine  with  them  on  Friday  of  the 
following  week  to  meet  Senator  Secor,  who  was 
to  be  in  town  for  a  few  days  only.  "  I  take  it 
for  granted,"  Joyce  said  in  closing,  "that  you 
have  seen  the  announcement  in  the  papers  of  his 
engagement  to  my  cousin,  which  is,  I  do  not 
doubt,  as  great  a  surprise  to  you  as  it  is 
to  us." 

Dilke  accepted  the  invitation  with  avidity. 
He  was  overwhelmed  with  curiosity  to  encounter 
Jacob  Secor  in  these  new  relations  and  surroimd- 
ings.  Above  all,  he  experienced  an  overmas- 
tering desire  to  see  him  with  Madame  du  Pont, 
since  his  imagination  absolutely  refused  to  couple 
them. 

It  was  some  time  after  eight  o'clock  on  the 
night  of  the  dinner  when  Dilke  entered  the 
Eldridges'  drawing  room.  He  had  been  delayed 
by  attendance  upon  a  very  sick  patient,  and  was 
one  of  the  last  guests.  Mr.  Eldridge  indeed 
looked  at  his  watch  conspicuously  as  Dilke  came 
in;  but  the  malefactor  only  smiled.  He  felt 
that  he  had  a  good  excuse  and  intended  to  pre- 
sent it  in  due  time,  but  not  at  the  point  of  a  pistol 
or  the  click  of  a  watch. 

As  Dilke  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  door- 
way, his  eye  took  in  the  various  rearrangements 
and   improvements   wrought   by   Madame    du 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     295 

Pont's  taste — the  sofa  at  right  angles  with  the 
fireplace  and  with  its  back  to  the  window,  the 
tete-k-tete  easy  chairs,  the  low,  well-shaded 
lights. 

The  party  was  large,  of  diverse  ages  and  vary- 
ing degrees  of  importance.  By  the  fire  stood  a 
leading  financier  in  talk  with  Madame  du  Pont. 
Near  by,  her  grey  hair  showing  white  against 
the  black  oak  of  the  chair  in  which  she  sat,  was 
Mrs.  Fenwick,  calmly  surveying  the  company. 
In  the  comer,  a  fashionable  architect,  the  de- 
signer of  the  new  Secor  mansion,  was  devoting 
himself,  with  professional  civility,  to  a  heavy 
dowager  in  green  brocade.  In  the  centre  stood 
Senator  Secor  talking  with  Joyce.  Instinctively 
and  unreasonably,  a  wave  of  resentment  swept 
over  Dilke  and  caused  him  to  bite  his  lip  hard. 
What  business  had  a  man  hke  that  to  be  so  near 
her! 

But  in  spite  of  his  resentment,  in  spite  of  all 
the  recollections  of  Secor  and  his  past,  Dilke  was 
forced  to  an  unwilling  recognition  that  outwardly 
a  great  change  had  swept  over  the  man.  In 
these  two  brief  years  he  had  assumed  a  wholly 
new  air  and  bearing.  His  slouching  carriage 
was  transformed  to  an  erect  one.  His  few 
months  of  public  life  had  given  him  a  distin- 
guished enunciation  and  an  impressive  manner 
which  lent  a  fictitious  importance  to  his  uttear- 


296         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

ances,  so  that  listeners  felt  that  they  had  only 
themselves  to  blame  if  they  failed  to  discern  the 
significance  of  his  remarks. 

Dilke  looked  eagerly  at  Joyce,  striving  to 
judge  whether  she  too  were  under  this  man's, 
spell;  but  he  quickly  decided  that  she  stood 
quite  apart  from  Secor's  sphere  of  influence  and 
was  drawing  him  on  by  her  air  of  gentle  inquiry 
to  lay  bare  his  character  before  those  shrewd 
young  eyes,  which  saw  more  from  under  their 
drooping  lids  than  swims  into  the  ken  of  most 
people's  full-orbed  vision.  All  this  Dilke  took 
in  during  the  instant  while  he  paused  in  the 
doorway.  Then  he  greeted  his  hostess,  and 
made  his  way  to  Mrs.  Fenwick. 

"Were  you  surprised  at  this  marriage?"  she 
ask^d  in  cautious  tones  of  Dilke  as  he  stood 
beside  her. 

"Very  much,"  he  answered. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  I  think  it  accords  admirably  with  the  fitness 
of  things." 

"At  least  it  is  likely  to  secure  the  happiness 
of  two  people." 

"  You  are  sure  that  they  will  be  happy? " 

"  Oh,  not  they!  I  was  thinking  of  the  people 
whom  they  might  have  married." 

Dilke  raised  his  eyebrows  and  smiled. 

"  You  are  severe  upon  them  both,"  he  said. 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     297 

"Yet  the  world  will  call  the  marriage  a  judi- 
dicious  one  for  him  and  a  brilliant  one  for  her.  " 

Mrs.  Fenwick  waved  her  fan  slowly  to  and  fro. 
"I  question,"  she  said,  "whether  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  a  brilliant  marriage  in  America.  A 
republic,  in  doing  away  with  rank,  makes  the 
social  struggle  a  farce — money,  publicity,  one 
may  attain;  but  in  a  few  years,  a  turn  of 
fortune's  wheel  brings  obscurity,  and  then  what 
is  left  of  a  marriage  of  ambition  except  its  bonds  ? 
I  should  pity  Emilie  except  that  she  deserves 
her  fate.  She  has  chosen  it  with  her  eyes  open. 
It  is  the  natural  result  of  the  development  of 
her  character.  As  to  the  fitness  of  a  widow's 
marrying  again,  I  do  not  prestime  to  speak;  but 
at  least  she  should  choose  with  a  discretion  which 
does  credit  to  her  acquired  experience." 

"  Madame  du  Pont  will  enjoy  the  opportu- 
nities of  Washington  life." 

"Oh,  yes,  she  will  be  prominent,  and  promi- 
nence is  dear  to  Emilie 's  sotil.  She  will  fill  her 
place  to  perfection.  The  Washington  of  to-day 
is  not  the  Washington  that  I  used  to  know. 
Emilie  will  find  herself  in  congenial  surroimd- 
ings  and  in  an  environment  which  will  show 
her  husband  to  the  best  advantage." 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  the  forced  talk 
which  precedes  that  signal  changed  to  an  air 
of  cheerful  anticipation.     Dilke  gave  his  arm 


298         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

to  Miss  Jermaine,  the  young  woman  whose  name 
he  had  found  on  his  card.  He  suspected  Joyce 
of  having  chosen  her  in  a  spirit  of  mockery,  in 
return  for  the  lectures  which  Miss  Eldridge  had 
received  from  him  on  the  subject  of  athletics. 
Surely  it  should  have  been  a  pleasure  to  any 
student  of  hygiene  to  escort  this  vigorous  young 
golf  champion.  Dilke  divined  her  honours  as  soon 
as  she  drew  off  her  gloves  and  he  saw  her  brown, 
muscular  arms  against  the  white  of  her  gown; 
but  he  was  not  left  long  to  the  guidance  of  sus- 
picion, for  Miss  Jermaine  began  at  once  on  the  rela- 
tive merits  of  the  links  at  Baltusrol  and  Ardsley . 

Dilke  listened  and  assumed  an  interest  if  he 
had  it  not,  all  the  time  wondering  what  town- 
bred  gallant  would  have  the  courage  to  offer  his 
protection  to  this  buxom  young  woman  who 
looked  quite  able  to  fight  her  own  battles  and 
protect  her  protector  if  necessary.  Then  he 
wisely  reflected  that  his  role  was  not  that  of 
protection  but  of  a  decent  civility,  and  he  strove 
to  give  his  whole  attention  to  the  mysteries  of 
tees  and  putters,  and  the  incredible  villainy  of 
caddies  in  searching  industriously  for  balls  which 
they  had  secreted  in  their  pockets. 

In  a  pause  of  the  conversation  Joyce  turned 
to  him  and  said :  "  Senator  Secor  tells  me  that 
he  is  a  native  of  Pieria.  How  does  it  happen 
that  you  do  not  know  each  other? " 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE      299 

"  We  have  never  met,  but  we  have  had  some 
correspondence,"  Dilke  answered  stiffly,  won- 
dering if  Secor  knew  anything  of  his  connection 
with  the  affair  of  the  hbrary. 

"  Do  not  force  me,  Miss  Eldridge,  "the  Senator 
interpolated,  "  to  confess  to  the  greater  niimber 
of  my  years  which  prevented  my  knowing 
Doctor  Dilke  personally.  I  had  left  Pieria 
before  he  began  practice  there.  But  I  had  some 
correspondence  with  him,  and  I  have  watched 
his  professional  career  with  interest.  Last  year 
when  I  was  in  New  York  I  chanced  to  be  strolling 
down  one  of  the  avenues  when  my  attention 
was  attracted  by  a  singular  sign  in  the  window. 
It  was  gone  the  next  day.  Do  you  still  practise 
pagan  healing.  Doctor  Dilke?" 

Dilke  coloured  to  his  temples  and  Joyce, 
noting  it,  rushed  to  his  rescue.  "There  is  no 
kind  of  healing  at  which  Doctor  Dilke  is  not  an 
adept,"  she  said.  "Some  day  when  he  is  as 
well  known  as  Sir  Morell  McKenzie,  for  instance, 
we  shall  claim  him  as  our  discovery.  By  the 
way,  who  are  your  leading  physicians  in  Wash- 
ington? You  have  good  ones,  I  trust,  for  my 
cousin's  sake.  Her  health  is  not  so  strong  as  it 
seems." 

The  conversation  was  successfully  diverted, 
but  not  before  the  men's  glances  had  met  like 
the  crossing  of  swords.     Secor's  was  a  challenge. 


300         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"We  both  have  our  secrets,"  it  said.  "Spare 
me  or  beware  of  me! " 

Jacob  Secor  had  made  it  the  practice  of  a  life- 
time to  possess  himself,  so  far  as  he  was  able,  of 
any  disagreeable  secret  touching  the  past  of 
every  man  with  whom  he  came  in  contact. 
Although  he  had  never  heard  of  Machiavelli,  he 
was  fully  alive  to  the  wisdom  of  his  maxim  that 
to  the  man  who  would  be  great,  two  courses  are 
open:  to  conciliate  or  to  crush.  Of  the  two  he 
preferred  the  former,  but  it  was  always  well  to 
hold  the  latter  in  reserve. 

Dilke  took  up  his  glass  of  champagne  and 
drained  it.  Then  he  turned  and  strove  to  give 
his  attention  once  more  to  his  neighbour;  but 
he  answered  "yes"  or  "no"  at  random,  and 
soon  he  had  informed  her  that  he  went  to  Palm 
Beach  every  year,  that  he  liked  the  life  there, 
but  was  sorry  to  be  away  at  midwinter,  because 
one  missed  so  many  cotillons,  and  all  the  time 
he  was  wholly  imconscious  of  these  flagrant 
misstatements.  His  real  conversation  was  with 
himself. 

'"Scorned — to  be  scorned  by  one  that  I  scorn, 
Is  that  a  matter  to  make  me  fret?' 

Yes,  by  Jove,  it  is  the  hardest  thing  there  is  to 
bear.  To  lose  the  right  to  feel  superior  to  a 
man  whom  I  hold  contemptible  is  the  lowest 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     301 

depth  of  self-abasement.  That  damning  sign 
was  only  in  the  window  for  one  day.  Why 
shoiild  Jacob  Secor  of  all  men  have  been  the 
one  to  see  it?" 

We  can  never  look  upon  any  action  as  dead 
and  btiried.  Our  deeds  are  like  Wandering 
Jews  which  may  rise  on  any  street  comer  to 
confront  us,  and  we  may  be  sure  it  will  always 
be  when  we  desire  their  acquaintance  least. 

The  dinner  seemed  to  Dilke  to  drag  on  end- 
lessly. Would  it  never  be  done!  The  cigars 
alone  with  the  men  were  not  so  bad;  but  he 
was  thankful  when  it  was  time  to  join  the  ladies. 

In  a  spirit  of  defiance  of  Secor,  Dilke  walked 
directly  over  to  Madame  du  Pont.  She  had 
laid  aside  her  mourning  and  wore  a  dress 
spangled  with  gold.  Fillets  of  gold  leaves 
bound  the  ripples  of  her  hair,  looking  dulled 
beside  its  lustre. 

■  "You  have  come  to  congratulate  me?"  she 
said  smiling,  though  her  lips  were  drawn. 

This  time  Dilke  was  so  little  moved  by 
emotion  that  evasion  came  trippingly  to  his 
tongue. 

"Not  I!"  he  answered,  smiling  too.  "When 
a  man  has  carried  off  a  charming  woman,  there 
is  a  distinct  sense  of  injury  in  the  rest  of  us 
which  forbids  our  congratulating  her,  whatever 
we  may  feel  toward  him,'* 


302         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"You  still  play  games  well,"  said  Madame 
du  Pont,  looking  up  at  him. 

"I  have  been  under  the  instruction  of  a 
skilful  teacher,  Madame,"  Dilke  replied. 

"Emilie,"  said  Mr.  Eldridge,  "Mr.  Winthrop, 
Senator  Secor's  architect,  wishes  to  meet  you 
and  to  talk  about  the  house  with  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Mr.  Winthrop,  a  tall,  slender 
man  who  stooped  a  little  as  if  under  the  weight 
of  a  mass  of  hair  falling  over  his  forehead,  "  I 
have  been  noting  a  curious  thing,  and  wishing 
to  ask  you  if  there  were  any  explanation  of 
the  coincidence.  To-day  I  received  Mr.  New- 
bold's  coloured  sketch  for  the  decorations  of  the 
Senator's  main  hall.  They  promise  to  be  fine, 
by  the  way;  but  to-night  as  I  have  sat  looking 
at  you,  I  could  have  taken  my  oath  that  the 
main  figure  was  a  portrait  of  you — a  very 
pretty  compliment  certainly.  Is  it  by  the  Sen- 
ator's orders?" 

Madame  du  Pont  answered  with  one  of  her 
smiles  of  dubious  interpretation,  neither  affirm- 
ing nor  denying.  That  smile  had  stood  her  in 
good  stead  on  many  occasions.  There  is  nothing 
like  a  smile  for  conveying  an  impression  with- 
out committing  one  afterward. 

"A  portrait  of  Emilie!"  Mr.  Eldridge  ex- 
claimed.    "  Are  you  sure  it  was  intentional? " 

"  You  shall  judge  for  yourself,"  Mr.  Winthrop 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE      303 

answered.  "I  have  had  the  drawings  photo- 
graphed and  reduced.  I  brought  them  to-night, 
thinking  that  Madame  du  Pont  would  be  inter- 
ested." 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  from  his  pocket  three  or 
four  photographs  and  handed  them  to  Madame 
du  Pont,  who  laid  them  in  her  lap  and  took  up 
the  first,  which  was  a  reproduction  of  the  central 
panel  to  be  placed  above  the  grand  stairway. 

Dilke,  who  stood  above  her,  felt  his  eyes 
drawn  toward  it  almost  against  his  will.  As 
he  looked,  he  was  amazed  at  the  idealising  power 
which  art  and  love  combined  can  give.  There 
stood  Madame  du  Pont — the  likeness  was  un- 
mistakable; but  how  transfigured!  This  god- 
dess of  hospitality  was  something  more  than 
the  woman  who  had  inspired  and  suggested  it 
could  ever  comprehend.  Here  was  a  spirit 
breathing  gracious  warmth.  The  red  hair  was 
transformed  to  a  hazy  aureole  about  her  head, 
the  Greek  draperies  left  her  rounded  arm  bare. 
One  hand,  white  and  slender,  was  extended  as 
if  in  welcome.  Her  foot  was  poised  lightly  on 
a  cloud,  and  underneath  the  picture  ran  the 
inscription  which  Dilke  recalled  so  clearly, 
scrawled  in  red  chalk  under  the  pastel  sketch 
in  Newbold's  studio,  the  lines  from  a  Greek  poet: 

"Her  feet  are  tender,  for  she  sets  her  steps 
Not  on  the  earth;  but  on  the  hearts  of  men," 


304         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

For  an  instant  Dilke's  wrath  was  swallowed 
up  in  admiration.  Then  a  wave  of  indignant 
protest  rose  in  his  soul  as  he  thought  of  that 
gentle,  loyal  spirit  serving  the  lady  of  his 
dreams  in  a  distant  land,  while  she  sat  here,  a 
smile  of  pleased  vanity  on  her  lips,  indifferent, 
wholly  indifferent  to  the  wound  which  she  had 
dealt. 

"Through  what  unworthy  channels  great 
inspirations  may  come  to  a  man,  and  after  all, 
how  fortunate  a  thing  it  is  that,  whatever  the 
romancer  may  tell  us,  love  is  not  the  only  thing 
in  life.  If  it  were,  a  man  might  as  well  go  out 
and  hang  himself  when  he  loses  the  woman  he 
loves.  But  men  like  Newbold  have  a  blessed 
consolation  in  their  devotion  to  their  craft. 
He  will  come  out  of  this  experience  a  greater 
artist,  and,  I  believe,  a  stronger  man." 

All  this  Dilke  was  saying  to  himself  while  he 
studied  the  photograph  which  he  had  taken  up 
and  held  in  his  hand.  As  he  returned  it  to 
Madame  du  Pont,  he  observed  aloud:  "It  is 
wonderfully  done,  and  as  Mr.  Winthrop  says, 
a  very  subtle  compliment.  I  trust,  Madame, 
that  its  associations,  as  well  as  its  beauty,  will 
give  you  great  pleasure." 

"Thank  you,"  Madame  du  Pont  exclaimed, 
quite  mistress  of  herself  now.  "  I  hope  that  you 
will  see  it   in  place  some  day  and  permit  the 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE      305 

goddess  of  hospitality  to  welcome  you  in 
Washington." 

"  Perhaps  Newbold  and  I  may  see  it  together 
some  time.  It  would  be  most  interesting  to 
watch  his  satisfaction  in  his  work." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Newbold  is  an  artist  to  the  finger 
tips.  Nothing  in  the  world  but  his  painting 
would  really  ever  satisfy  him." 

It  was  all  like  an  eighteenth  century  comedy, 
the  talk  between  these  two,  so  innocent  of  under 
meaning  to  those  who  stood  about,  so  charged 
with  intent  to  the  speakers.  Dilke  meant  that 
this  woman  should  catch  the  covert  sneer  in 
his  voice.  She  did,  and  met  it  with  defiant 
eyes  and  smiling  lips.  Yet  if  he  could  have 
known  the  pain  at  her  heart  he  might  have 
forgiven  her  much.  As  she  looked  up  at  that 
indignant  face  bent  over  her,  she  realised  with 
a  swift  pang  that  here  was  the  one  man  whom 
she  might  have  loved.  Not  even  to  herself 
would  she  admit  that  he  was  the  man  whom  she 
did  love.  That  long  misery  of  knowledge  was 
reserved  for  the  years  to  come. 

In  response  to  Madame  du  Font's  last  words 
Dilke  simply  bowed,  and  turning,  walked  quietly 
across  the  room  to  Joyce  Eldridge,  who  was 
standing  for  the  moment  alone.  Her  dress  was 
of  white  tulle  trimmed  with  hyacinths  and  made 
in  Paris.     To  Dilke's  eyes  it  was  a  gown  of 


306  CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

mist,  fashioned  in  fairyland,  and  hung  with 
celestial  asphodels. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  'good  night,'  "  said  Dilke. 

"So  soon?" 

"  Yes,  my  reason  for  leaving  early  is  the  same 
as  my  excuse  for  coming  late.  I  have  a  patient 
who  is  very  ill."  Then,  looking  closely  at  Joyce, 
he  added:  "Tell  me  how  you  are — how  you 
really  are?" 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  You  are  looking  thin  and  a  little,  worn  in 
spite  of  your  high  colour,  and  your  eyelids  are 
tired  over  the  bright  excitement  of  your  eyes." 

"Thank  you.  In  other  words,  I  am  looking 
rather  plain." 

"You  know,"  Dilke  answered,  "that  you 
never  looked  lovelier.  Your  mirror  told  you 
that  when  you  looked  into  it.  I  am  not  here 
to  repeat  its  flatteries.  I  speak  as  a  physician — 
and  a  friend." 

"Thank  you  again,  and  this  time  I  say  it 
seriously.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  a  little 
tired,  but  otherwise  quite  well — far  better  than 
you,  judging  by  your  looks." 

"I  arri  well  enough,  physically." 

A  soft  sympathy  dawned  in  Joyce's  eyes. 
"  I  know,"  she  said;  " you  don't  mind  my  telling 
you  that  I  understand." 

"  It  is  good  in  you — I  knew  you  would." 


DILKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE      307 

"Yes,"  Joyce  went  on  hurriedly,  a  swift, 
nervous  colotir  rising  in  her  cheek,  "  I  thought 
it  all  over  before  I  asked  you  to-night — I  trust 
I  did  not  make  a  mistake.  I  thought  it  would 
be  easier  for  you  to  meet  them  like  this  in  a 
crowd." 

Dilke  looked  up  bewildered;  but  before  he 
cotild  reply,  a  man  on  the  other  side  of  Joyce 
claimed  her  attention,  and  Dilke  could  only 
repeat  his  good  night  and  leave  the  room. 

Once  outside  the  room  and  the  house,  he 
found  himself  dizzy,  and  wondered  if  he  could 
have  drunk  more  wine  than  he  realised.  There 
must  be  something  wrong  with  him.  Surely 
his  mind  must  be  bewildered  to  let  such  fancies 
creep  into  it  as  were  assailing  it  now.  He 
repeated  Joyce's  words  over  and  over  to  him- 
self. What  did  they  mean?  Surely,  surely  she 
had  not  thought,  she  could  not  think  that  he 
was  in  love  with  her  cousin.  Preposterous! 
And  yet  what  other  interpretation  could  he 
place  on  her  sympathy,  on  her  saying  that  it 
woiild  be  easier  for  him  to  meet  "them"  in  a 
crowd? 

It  was — it  must  be  true!  Then  how  much 
or  how  little  did  it  mean?  Had  it  been  a  belief 
in  this  imaginary  interest  of  his  in  Madame  du 
Pont  which  had  led  to  the  indifference  of  Joyce's 
manner  to  himself? 


308         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

In  spite  of  himself,  a  wild  wave  of  excitement 
swelled  in  a  deluge  over  his  soul.  When  it 
subsided  it  left  him  gloomy. 

"No,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I  will  not  think 
of  it — not  for  a  moment.  I  have  opened  my 
Pandora's  box,  and  all  the  troubles  that  afflict 
humanity  have  flown  out  to  sting  me;  but 
hope  is  still  safely  locked  inside.  Let  her  stay 
there  till  she  dies  for  lack  of  food.  If  she  ever 
escaped  to  whisper  her  soft  promises  in  my  ear, 
and  then  I  found  them  lies  and  was  forced  to 
face  the  bitter  truth  again,  I  could  not  bear 
it — I  would  rather  die." 

Dilke  came  out  of  the  house  and  started  at 
a  brisk  pace  walking  eastward  from  Washing- 
ton Square.  The  weather  was  damp,  with  a 
light  fog  hanging  like  a  curtain  of  gatize  among 
the  trees  in  the  park.  The  streets  were  wet 
and  the  reflection  of  the  lamps  lengthened 
themselves  on  the  pavement. 

There  is  a  curious  power  in  atmosphere  to 
affect  the  memory,  to  bring  back  things  seen 
and  felt  under  similar  conditions.  Recollec- 
tions of  a  night  like  this  in  Paris  rushed  back 
on  Dilke's  mind.  Just  so  had  the  steam  risen 
from  the  garden  of  the  Tuilleries;  so  had  the 
lights  shone  upside  down  from  the  pavements, 
and  so  had  the  figure  of  Joyce  Eldridge  moved 
before  him  like  an  apparition. 


UlLKE  MEETS  AN  ACQUAINTANCE     309 

The  fog  seemed  to  have  bewildered  his  brain. 
He  could  not  think  distinctly,  could  not  reason 
clearly.  Precisely  how  much  or  how  little  was 
it  reasonable  to  attach  to  Joyce's  words  in  the 
drawing  room  a  few  moments  ago?  Evidently 
their  significance  must  be  estimated  in  the  light 
of  the  past.  In  vain  he  tried  to  recall  every 
little  circumstance  in  the  past  six  months 
which  could  help  him.  Had  this  "ice  maiden," 
as  Newbold  called  her,  ever  shown  a  trace  of 
warmth  toward  him  ?  Had  she  blushed  or  paled 
when  he  took  her  hand?  Even  there  on  the 
steamer,  when  he  had  ventured  for  one  blessed 
moment  to  lay  his  hand  over  hers,  was  there 
anything  in  her  acceptance  of  that  clasp  which 
suggested  more  than  friendship? 

Honesty  compelled  him  to  answer  in  the 
negative. 

So  decisive  was  the  response  to  his  inward 
questionings  that  he  began  to  doubt  rather  his 
interpretation  of  the  scene  which  he  had  just 
left  behind  him.  It  was  vanity  alone,  or  van- 
ity and  love  mingled,  which  had  led  him  to 
read  hope  in  eyes  that  spoke  only  pity.  She 
vas  sorry  for  him,  that  was  all;  but  what  a 
lature  it  was  that  could  exclude  self  enough 
for  pity,  and  pity  extended  to  the  man  who  of 
all  others  had  been  most  responsible  for  her 
own  unhappiness! 


310         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

If  he  could  only  see  her  alone,  only  explain 
how  it  had  all  come  about,  only  know  how  she 
felt  toward  Brandy ce,  only  clear  himself  at 
least  of  the  odious  suspicion  of  having  been  in 
love  with  Madame  du  Pont !  For  some  strange 
reason  that  accusation  rankled  more  than  the 
suggestion  of  having  failed  in  his  duty  to 
Brandy  ce.  Perhaps  because,  conscious  as  he 
was  of  a  feeling  deeper  than  anything  else  in 
him  toward  Joyce  herself,  it  seemed  like  a 
charge  of  falseness  to  his  love,  of  treating  lightly 
a  devotion  which,  though  unrewarded,  must 
always  remain  the  master  motive  of  his  life ;  be- 
cause it  had  for  him  the  force  of  an  intimate 
presence  as  little  to  be  evaded  or  escaped  as  life 
itself. 

Of  that  strange  misconception  of  his  possible 
falseness  to  her,  at  least,  he  could  and  would 
dispose  finally  and  forever.  Joyce  should  not 
rest  under  that  delusion  a  moment  longer 
than  he  could  not  help.  He  would  go  to  her 
to-morrow.  What  or  how  much  he  would  tell 
her  he  left  to  the  interview  itself  to  decide. 


CHAPTER   XVII 
A  Divided  Duty 

On  the  morning  after  the  Eldridge  dinner, 
Dilke  sat  in  his  office  figuring  accounts.  He 
had  always  found  working  with  figures  the  best 
antidote  for  dreaming.  It  braced  the  mind  to 
deal  with  hard  facts,  with  actualities.  There 
was  no  "if"  or  "perhaps"  about  4  +  4  or 
77  X  89.  Things  were  either  true  or  false, 
and  results  must  tally  with  universal  law  which 
feeling  was  powerless  to  alter  by  a  jot. 

So  closely  was  Dilke's  attention  engaged,  that 
he  scarcely  raised  his  head  from  the  ruled  page 
before  him  when  the  office  bell  rang.  The  door 
opened  and  Senator  Secor  walked  in.  He  was 
dressed  in  a  quiet,  faultlessly  fitting  suit  of 
grey,  and  he  wore  a  white  carnation  in  the 
buttonhole  of  his  coat.  His  whole  appearance 
was  fresh  as  the  morning. 

This  man  had  been  so  constantly  in  Dilke's 
thoughts  of  late  that  his  bodily  presence  seemed 
only  a  materialisation  of  mental  impressions. 
The  Senator  stood  in  front  of  the  table,  sharply 
outlined  against  the   sunlight  which  poured  in 

311 


312         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

through  the  unshaded  windows.  Dilke,  as  he 
looked  at  Secor,  seemed  to  be  studying  a  tangi- 
ble symbol  of  success,  a  mathematical  demon- 
stration of  ultimate  arrival.  Here  was  a  man 
who  had  pushed  his  way  to  the  front,  who 
had  broken  "his  birth's  invidious  bar,"  had 
overcome  or  cast  down  every  obstacle,  had 
forced  himself  on  public  attention,  had  gained 
every  prize  on  which  he  had  set  his  heart. 

Dilke  experienced  a  protesting  admiration  as 
he  watched  him,  and  envied  the  foresight,  the 
determination,  the  force  which  had  made  him 
what  he  was.  Secor  had  been  hampered  by 
no  tenderness  of  feeling,  no  hesitant  scruples, 
no  delicacy  of  conscience.  These  handicaps  in 
the  race  of  life  he  had  thrown  away,  and  behold 
the  victor,  smiling  down  at  defeated  com- 
petitors from  the  heights  of  his  place  in  the 
Senate  House! 

Dilke  felt  his  mind  bewildered  as  these 
thoughts  flashed  through  it  inchoate  and  dis- 
connected, as  flying  thoughts  come. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  Senator,  a  broad, 
good-natured  smile  rippling  across  his  ample 
mouth  and  losing  itself  in  the  creases  of  his 
commodious  chin. 

"Good  morning,  Senator,"  Dilke  answered, 
rising  and  playing  with  the  papers  on  his  desk 
as  an  excuse  for  not  offerin;?  his  hand. 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  313 

"I  came  to  see  you  on  business,"  Secor  went 
on,  "and  I  chose  this  time  because  Miss 
Eldridge  told  me  that  it  was  your  office  hour; 
but  as  my  business  is  personal  rather  than  pro- 
fessional, you  must  not  let  me  detain  you  from 
waiting  patients." 

With  this  the  Senator  cast  a  bland  and  imper- 
sonal glance  at  the  empty  chairs  around  the 
room. 

Dilke  flushed.  "I  have  no  patients  this 
morning,"  he  replied.  "  I  very  frequently  have 
none.     I  am  only  a  beginner,  you  know." 

"Beginnings  are  always  difficult,"  Secor  re- 
sponded. "  I  still  have  a  keen  recollection  of 
my  own.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  in  forcing  our 
knife  into  the  oyster  we  sometimes  cut  ourselves 
on  the  shell." 

Dilke  remained  silent.  His  power  of  silence 
was  a  distinct  social  asset.  In  this  case  it  forced 
Secor  to  show  his  hand  before  he  had  intended. 

"Yes,"  he  repeated,  "I  cut  myself  more 
than  once,  and  though  the  wounds  have  healed, 
the  scars  remain.  I  am  quite  ready  to  admit 
that  my  early  life  was  marked  by  indiscretions. 
I  sowed  my  wild  oats." 

"They  seem  to  have  reaped  a  rich  harvest," 
Dilke  interrupted  in  a  tone  difficult  to  interpret. 
The  Senator  chose  to  accept  it  as  compli- 
mentary. 


314         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"Yes,  fortune  has  favoured  me,  as  you  say; 
but  one  looks  back  and  regrets.  One  wishes 
to  shut  the  door  of  the  past  and  live  in  the 
present." 

With  this  he  sank  into  an  arm  chair  which 
Dilke  had  neglected  to  offer,  and  said  with  a 
cordiality  which  had  a  genuinely  winning  qual- 
ity: "Doctor  Dilke,  I  have  come  to  ask  you  to 
help  me  to  shut  this  door,  to  bolt  and  bar  it,  so 
that  I  can  go  on  with  new  courage  for  the  future." 

Dilke  waited,  determined  not  to  be  lured  into 
an  ambush.  The  Senator  went  on  still  more 
candidly. 

"You  know  my  past.  You  also  know  the 
woman  who  is  to  be  my  wife.  There  is  much 
that  women  cannot  understand.  They  should 
not  be  brought  unnecessarily  into  contact  with 
the  rough  facts  of  life.     You  agree  with  me? " 

"I  see  your  point," 

"Ah,"  said  the  Senator,  placing  his  fingers 
together  and  regarding  them  attentively.  "  That 
is  what  it  is  to  deal  with  a  clever  man.  There 
is  no  call  for  explanations  when  people  are  quick. 
You  started  out  there  in  Pieria  with  village 
standards.  I  knew  that  when  you  came  to 
New  York  you  would  begin  to  look  at  things  as 
a  man  of  the  world  looks  at  them.  You  would 
see  that  success  lies  at  the  top  of  the  ladder. 
The  upper  rungs  of  the  ladder  are  in  the  public 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  315 

eye  and  should  be  open  to  inspection ;  but  the 
foot  must  be  underground  and  bear  the  raarks 
of  the  soil.  When  I  passed  your  window  last 
year  and  saw  that  sign " 

Dilke  turned  white  and  bit  his  under  lip  tiU 
the  blood  came. 

"When  I  saw  that  sign,"  the  Senator  re- 
peated, "  I  said  to  myself :  '  That  young  man  will 
get  on.  He  has  dropped  the  sickly  imbecility 
of  expecting  to  reform  the  world  and  has  adapted 
himself  to  existing  conditions.  The  people  want 
htunbug.     Let  them  have  it!'" 

While  this  talk  was  flowing  easily  from  Secor's 
lips,  Dilke  felt  as  if  he  were  Faust  and  this 
Mephistopheles  come  to  offer  ironical  congratu- 
lations on  his  joining  the  company  of  the 
damned.  His  one  emotion  was  a  wild  deter- 
mination to  separate  himself  from  this  man's 
association,  by  which  he  felt  himself  smirched 
and  contaminated. 

"That  sign,"  he  said  with  slow  emphasis, 
"was  a  dirty,  dishonourable  trick,  to  which  I 
persuaded  myself  by  a  course  of  sophistical 
reasoning  intended  to  stifle  my  knowledge  that 
I  was  making  myself  a  charlatan.  The  only 
patient  it  brought  me  was  Mr.  Eldridge,  and  I 
laid  the  whole  matter  bare  before  him  the  next 
day." 

"That  was  a  still  cleverer  move,"  the  Senator 


316         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

answered  with  a  sarcastic  glint  in  his  eye. 
"Your  sign  attracted  attention.  Your  candour 
cHnched  confidence.  I  admire  you,  Doctor 
Dilke." 

Dilke  dug  his  nails  into  his  palms  under  the 
table. 

"  Our  notions  of  what  is  admirable  are  so  differ- 
ent," he  said,  "that  it  is  quite  useless  to  discuss 
the  matter.  Your  business  with  me  this  morn- 
ing, I  judge,  was  to  secure  my  silence  as  toward 
Madame  du  Pont,  concerning  any  inconvenient 
episodes  in  your  past  which  may  have  come  to 
my  knowledge." 

"  That  was  part  of  my  business,  and  I  should 
wish  to  put  the  matter  on  a  business  basis." 

"Thank  you,"  Dilke  answered,  his  voice 
striving  to  be  ironical,  but  choked  by  rising 
anger.  "  If  you  intend  to  imply  an  honorarium 
for  my  silence,  I  must  assure  you  that  it  would 
not  be  acceptable.  If  I  keep  silence,  it  is  because 
my  relation  to  Madame  du  Pont  is  not  such  as 
to  lead  me  to  burden  her  with  either  advice  or 
confidences.  I  regard  her  as  a  charming  woman 
quite  capable  of  conducting  her  own  affairs." 

Secor  waved  an  appreciation  with  his  hand 
from  his  shirt  front  outward  toward  Dilke. 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  share  my  admiration  for 
Madame  du  Pont,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  grateful 
that  I  can  depend  on  your  judicious  reserve. 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  317 

At  present  evidently  I  am  unable  to  testify  my 
gratitude  in  material  form;  but  if  you  should 
ever  wish  to  go  into  politics  and  I  could  forward 
your  advancement " 

"All  that  is  quite  out  of  my  line,"  Dilke  inter- 
rupted. "  Let  us  consider  the  episode  closed. 
But  you  spoke  of  this  as  only  part  of  your  busi- 
ness. As  my  office  hour  is  nearly  ended  and  I 
have  an  engagement  up  town,  may  I  ask  if  there 
is  anything  further  about  which  you  wish  to 
consult  me?" 

"A  minor  matter,  and  I  will  finish  it  quickly," 
Secor  answered,  lifting  a  paper-knife  from  the 
table  and  balancing  it  on  his  finger.  "You 
know  Captain  Brandyce?" 

Again  Dilke  felt  as  if  Mephistopheles  sat  before 
him,  touching  every  stop  of  pain  in  the  organ  of 
his  being  and  striking  discords  which  jarred 
through  the  whole  gamut  of  his  nature.  But 
he  gripped  his  self-control  hard  and  held  his 
features  immovable. 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  he  replied. 

"  It  is  about  him  that  I  wish  to  consult  you." 

Dilke  nodded,  but  made  no  verbal  reply.  He 
was  gathering  his  powers  to  meet  the  situation 
as  it  might  develop.  He  resolved  on  caution 
and  reticence. 

"  Is  he  a  man  whom  you  would  recommend? " 
Secor  asked. 


318         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"For  what  position?" 

"Hm!  for  a  somewhat  deHcate  one,  involving 
tact,  phancy,  and  discretion." 

"Brandyce  has  all  three." 

"Ah!  So  Madame  du  Pont  tells  me.  Won- 
derful woman,  Madame  du  Pont — keen  and 
sharp  as  a  razor." 

"That  will  be  a  happy  marriage,"  Dilke 
commented  to  himself;  "no  illusions  on  either 
side."  It  crossed  his  mind  to  wonder  whether 
Mr.  Eldridge  had  imparted  his  own  doubts  of 
Brandy ce  to  Madame  du  Pont;  whether,  if  he 
had,  Madame  du  Pont  would  have  been  preju- 
diced thereby.  From  what  Dilke  had  observed 
of  that  lady,  he  was  inclined  to  believe  that  she 
would  be  very  lenient  toward  any  shortcomings 
which  did  not  militate  against  worldly  success. 
Perhaps,  indeed,  with  her  usual  insight,  she  had 
perceived  in  Brandyce's  failing  a  distinct  ele- 
ment of  usefulness  to  his  prospective  employer. 
Truly  the  Senator  was  justified  in  calling  her  a 
wonderful  woman. 

While  Dilke  was  occupied  with  these  thoughts 
he  almost  forgot  Secor's  presence  till  the  latter 
continued : 

"However,  she  advised  me  to  consult  you." 

"I  appreciate  the  compliment." 

**  Yes,  she  said  you  knew  him  thoroughly  and 
wovild  tell  me  what  I  wish  to  know.     I  am  look- 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  319 

ing  for  a  private  secretary  who  shall  be,  how- 
ever, much  more  than  is  generally  expected  in 
that  office.  I  should  wish  him  to  be  my  repre- 
sentative in  matters  in  which  I  did  not  care  to 
appear  personally." 

("Lobbying  for  the  whiskey  trust,"  Dilke 
commented  inwardly.) 

"  I  prefer  a  new  man,  not  formerly  associated 
with  me." 

("Clever  scheme  to  disarm  suspicion.") 

"  He  would  need  to  be  accustomed  to  good 
society  at  home  and  abroad." 

("  International  lobbying.  Secor  is  spreading 
out.") 

"  In  short,  a  man  who  would  make  a  favoiir- 
able  impression,  who  would  be  true  to  my  inter- 
ests, which  would  also  be  his  own,  and  who  would 
not  be  fanatical  in  dealing  with  transactions 
involving  delicate  negotiations.  Is  this  Captain 
Brandy ce  such  a  man?" 

"Precisely." 

"You  would  cordially  endorse  him,  then?" 

"You  could  not  find  a  better  man  for  the 
position,  I  should  say." 

"Thanks.  Would  you  perhaps  be  good 
enough  to  open  negotiations  with  him  on  my 
behalf?  You  would  be  at  liberty  to  state  that 
the  salary  would  be  a  large  one  if  he  proves  satis- 
factory.    I  am  too  good  a  business  man  not  to 


320         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

pay  liberally  for  services  demanding  peculiar 
talent." 

("  In  other  words,  for  dirty  work  done  by  men 
of  clean  reputation.") 

"And  this  at  least  you  would  surely  consent 
to  allow  me  to  acknowledge  as  a  business  trans- 
action with  you." 

"No,  no,  not  that!"  Dilke  answered  hastily, 
and  then  sat  silent,  studying  the  wall  behind 
Senator  Secor's  head.  Under  the  mask  of 
immobility  which  confronted  the  visitor,  a 
tumult  of  emotions  was  raging — emotions  which 
Secor  was  as  incapable  of  suspecting  as  of  com- 
prehending. Where  did  duty  lie?  This  was  a 
question  which  dominated  all  Dilke's  queries. 
Brandy ce  was  well  suited  for  the  place.  There 
was  no  doubt  of  that.  Secor  had  chosen  with 
his  usual  mixture  of  luck  and  shrewdness. 
Moreover,  the  opportunity  set  Dilke's  pulses  to 
beating  as  he  pictured  himself  going  to  Brandyce 
with  this  offer  in  his  hand,  saying  to  him:  "  Here 
is  an  opening  to  wealth,  power,  success ;  I  bring 
it  to  you  as  payment  of  my  debt  and  as  a  peace 
offering."  But  in  reality  he  knew  that  the 
offer  was  devil-sent ;  that  it  meant  bringing  out 
the  worst  that  was  in  Brandyce,  shutting  the  lid 
of  the  coffin  on  any  good  impulses  and  resolu- 
tions which  might  have  spnmg  to  life  in  repent- 
ance for  his  past  sins. 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  321 

If  he  had  sincerely  repented  and  if  Joyce 
Eldridge  still  clung  to  him,  there  was  a  possible 
future,  a  possible  honourable  career,  still  open  to 
Brandy ce.  This  bargain  would  close  it.  Could 
Dilke  bring  himself  to  lend  a  hand  at  such  a 
transaction  ? 

No  one  has  learned  to  live  who  does  not  some- 
times live  in  the  lives  of  others,  and  for  the 
moment  Dilke  made  Brandyce's  case  his  own, 
and  strove  to  consider  what  offered  most  of  hope 
and  true  betterment.  At  length  he  broke 
silence,  saying: 

"  I  will  open  the  negotiations  as  you  suggest, 
Senator;  but  I  must  be  candid  with  you.  If  I 
speak  to  Captain  Brandyce  I  shall  set  the  case 
clearly  before  him.  If  he  asks  my  advice,  I 
shall  give  it.  Do  you  care  for  my  services  on 
those  terms?" 

Secor  smiled  wearily,  like  a  politician  dealing 
with  a  college  professor  whose  unfamiliarity  with 
the  practical  world  at  once  irritates  and  amuses 
him. 

"You  are  quite  at  liberty  to  introduce  the 
matter  in  any  way  you  choose,"  he  answered, 
"only  I  must  ask  you  to  emphasise  the  im- 
portance which  I  attach  to  the  service,  the 
political  opening  which  it  may  offer,  and  the 
fact  that  a  large  salary  goes  with  the  appoint- 
ment." 


322         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"  I  will  not  fail  to  do  so,"  said  Dilke. 

The  Senator  rose.  "  If  you  will  make  an 
appointment  with  Captain  Brandy  ce,  I  will  see 
him  at  my  hotel.  And  now  I  must  apologise 
for  taking  so  much  of  your  time,"  he  said,  laying 
down  the  paper-cutter  and  looking  straight  at 
Dilke.  "  But  I  cannot  be  sorry.  I  feel  that  for 
the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  met  an  honest 
man." 

Dilke  held  out  his  hand.  Was  it  vanity  which 
moved  him  to  concede  what  he  had  withheld 
at  first,  or  was  it  a  sudden  appreciation  of  a 
latent  manliness  in  this  intriguing,  unscrupulous, 
Mephistophelian  politician? 

Dilke  himself  pondered  on  the  question,  and 
after  the  door  closed  he  decided  that  it  was  crass 
vanity  to  which  he  had  yielded,  an  imbecile  satis- 
faction in  hearing  himself  called  an  honest  man 
by  one  who  had  no  standards  of  honesty; 
but  while  he  stood  in  Secor's  presence  he  felt 
himself  swayed  by  the  current  of  electricity 
which  passes  from  man  to  man  and  explains  the 
quality  which  we  call  magnetism. 

All  through  the  interview  Dilke  had  been  won- 
dering at  the  change  which  had  come  over  Secor 
— not  that  his  morals  showed  signs  of  funda- 
mental improvement,  but  that  he  had  learned  at 
least  to  veil  them  with  a  decent  regard  for  other 
men's  prejudices  in  favour  of  a  different  code. 


A  DIVIDED  DUTY  323 

Outward  respectability  seemed  to  be  the  latest 
but  most  cherished  luxury  which  his  wealth  had 
been  able  to  purchase.  The  manners  and  vocab- 
ulary of  society  he  had  acquired  with  astonish- 
ing celerity,  and  now  he  was  drawing  near  to 
decency.  Perhaps,  after  all,  Madame  du  Pont 
had  made  as  good  a  bargain  as  she  deserved. 

When  Dilke  found  himself  alone  he  gave  way 
to  a  wild  exultation.  At  last  it  seemed  that 
fortune  had  put  in  his  way  a  means  of  repaying 
his  debt.  Here  at  length  was  the  quid  pro  quo, 
for  which  he  had  been  vainly  longing.  He  would 
state  the  case  fairly,  would  set  before  Brandyce 
all  the  dangers  which  might  beset  his  course; 
but,  after  all,  Brandyce  was  a  full-grown  man. 
The  ultimate  decision  must  rest  in  his  own  hands, 
while  Dilke  would  feel  that  however  it  eventu- 
ated, he  had  done  his  part.  The  opportunity 
for  service  had  offered  itself  and  he  had  grasped 
it.  His  mind  had  no  room  for  any  other  feeling 
than  joy.  It  was  as  if  prison  doors  had  been 
suddenly  flung  wide  and  the  prisoner  had  a 
glimpse  of  liberty.  At  last  the  shackles  of 
obligation  were  about  to  fall  off  and  leave  him 
a  free  man. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
Port  After  Stormy  Seas 

Not  for  an  instant  had  Dilke  lost  sight  of  his 
purpose  of  seeing  Joyce  Eldridge.  His  mind 
was  full  of  her.  All  other  thoughts  sank  into 
insignificance  beside  the  intensity  of  his  desire 
to  explain  his  position  to  her.  He  longed  to 
be  assured  from  her  own  lips  that  he  had  not  in 
her  eyes  committed  what  was  to  him  the  un- 
pardonable sin. 

How  he  should  phrase  all  that  he  had  to  say 
was  not  quite  clear  to  him;  but  he  had  faith 
that  it  would  come  to  him  as  he  spoke.  The 
main  thing  was  the  opportunity  of  seeing  her 
alone.  At  first  he  thought  of  writing  and 
asking  Joyce  to  name  a  time  when  she  would  be 
free.  Then  that  struck  him  as  giving  formality 
to  an  interview  which  he  wished  to  make  in- 
formal, at  least  in  the  beginning,  so  he  decided 
to  take  his  chance. 

There  is  no  truer  saying,  however,  than  that 
pleasant  memories  must  be  arranged  for  in 
advance,  and  when  Dilke  met  Madame  du  Pont 
and  Joyce  stepping  out  of  the  Eldridge  carriage 

324 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  325 

as  he  neared  the  house,  he  cursed  his  own  folly 
in  not  forestalling  such  a  happening. 

It  was  too  late,  however,  to  arrange  anything, 
and  he  was  conscious  of  a  double  embarrass- 
ment in  meeting  these  two  women  together — 
the  one  whom  he  loved  and  the  one  whom  he 
was  supposed  by  her  to  love,  though  the  truth 
was  known  to  the  second,  who  for  reasons  of  her 
own  had  evidently  not  revealed  it. 

It  was  easy  to  resolve  to  appear  uncon- 
cerned, but  quite  another  thing  to  carry  out 
the  programme.  Dilke  was  not  enough  of  a 
man  of  the  world  to  play  a  part  at  any  time, 
and  especially  when  he  was  deeply  moved  as 
now.  He  was  conscious  that  he  was  flushing 
high,  that  he  was  fingering  his  hat  nervously, 
and  that  he  followed  the  two  women  into  the 
house  with  an  air  of  embarrassment  which 
would  tend  to  confirm  rather  than  to  allay 
Joyce's  suspicions. 

A  few  moments  later  Senator  Secor  entered, 
but  Madame  du  Pont  showed  no  inclination  to 
withdraw  with  him.  In  fact,  she  devoted  her- 
self rather  ostentatiously  to  Dilke  and  left  the 
Senator  to  talk  with  Joyce,  who  answered  in 
obviously  indifferent  monosyllables.  Only  once 
did  she  manifest  any  interest,  and  that  was 
when  Brandyce's  name  was  mentioned.  Dilke 
looked  up  quickly  and  caught  the  flush  on  her 


326         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

cheek,  the  trouble  in  her  eyes.  He  longed  to 
listen  to  what  she  was  saying,  but  Madame  du 
Pont  held  his  attention  closely. 

She  was  talking  of  temperament,  of  how  far 
it  was  innate  and  how  far  it  could  be  cultivated. 

"Temperament  is  the  aroma  of  personality, 
isn't  it.  Doctor  Dilke?"  she  said  as  she  lifted 
the  teacup  which  the  Senator  had  handed  to 
her.  "You  know  it  just  as  you  recognise  the 
bouquet  of  this  flowery  Pekoe  before  you  put 
it  to  your  lips." 

Dilke  smiled  in  spite  of  himself.  The  asso- 
ciation of  flowery  Pekoe  and  Jake  Secor  was 
too  diverting  for  his  gravity.  Madame  du  Pont, 
who  had  an  uncanny  power  of  divining  what 
was  going  on  in  the  mind  of  a  person  with  whom 
she  was  talking,  continued  with  a  note  of  explana- 
tion in  her  voice:  "Of  course  there  are  some 
characters  so  strong  that  they  impress  them- 
selves directly  and  without  any  prelude  of 
subtlety.  That  perhaps  is  the  true  American 
type,  our  contribution,  as  it  were;  and,  to 
me,  after  living  so  long  on  the  other  side 
where  everything  is  indirect  and  subtle, 
these  direct,  dominant  natures  have  a  peculiar 
interest." 

"I  can  readily  understand  it,"  Dilke  an- 
swered, his  features  under  control  once  more. 
"It  is  doubtless  the  law  of  opposite  attractions. 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  327 

But  meanwhile  what  have  I  done  to  be  excluded 
fronn  the  sacred  rites  of  tea  drinking? " 

"Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon!"  Joyce  answered 
from  behind  the  tea  table,  turning  toward  him 
from  the  Senator,  "I  thought  that  you  never 
took  tea." 

"  I  intend  to  make  an  exception  this  after- 
noon. Madame  du  Pont  assures  me  that  your 
tea  is  a  symbol  of  temperament,  and  I  wish  to 
make  an  effort  to  penetrate  the  mystery." 

If  Dilke  had  hoped  to  make  a  diversion,  he 
was  disappointed,  for  no  one  moved  except  to 
widen  the  circle  a  little  so  as  to  make  the  con- 
versation general;  and  to  Dilke,  whose  mind 
was  full  of  vital  things,  the  touch  and  go  of 
small  talk  quickly  became  intolerable. 

After  a  few  moments  he  rose.  As  he  did  so 
Henry  Eldridge  entered.  His  hearty  manner 
and  explosive  welcome  seemed  to  relieve  the 
social  tension — a  tension  which  everyone  had 
felt,  though  no  one  could  have  explained. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  doctor!  "  Henry  exclaimed. 
"  It's  lucky  for  you  there  aren't  many  men  as 
healthy  as  I  in  New  York.  Feel  that! "  and  he 
doubled  his  arm  with  visible  pride  at  the  bulg- 
ing of  the  biceps. 

"Henry!"  said  his  sister  in  a  vain  effort  to 
subdue  her  brother's  manner  to  the  conven- 
tions of  the  drawing  room. 


328         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"  What's  the  matter  now,  Joyce? "  her  brother 
answered  with  jovial  self-assertion.  "Can't  a 
man  show  his  muscle  before  people?  Is  it  any- 
thing to  be  ashamed  of?" 

"We  are  willing  to  take  it  for  granted,"  his 
sister  began,  but  Madame  du  Pont  interrupted 
her.  "Don't  try  to  change  Henry,"  she  said 
in  an  aside.     "  He  is  so  delightfully  typical." 

Few  people  enjoy  having  those  for  whom 
they  feel  responsible  regarded  as  "types." 
Joyce  wished  that  Henry  would  learn  to  differ- 
entiate his  down-town  and  up-town  manners. 
She  wished  that  Emilie's  green  eyes  were  not 
so  keen.  Above  all  she  wished  that  Dilke  would 
take  his  leave.  From  the  beginning  of  his  call 
she  had  felt  that  he  desired  to  see  Madame  du 
Pont  alone,  and  she  was  enraged  with  herself 
for  lacking  the  social  tact  to  separate  herself 
and  Senator  Secor  from  the  group.  It  was 
this  feeling  which  had  left  her  so  unable  to 
carry  on  a  conversation.  "Perhaps,"  she  said 
now  to  her  brother,  "Senator  Secor  would  be 
interested  to  see  the  gymnasium  which  you 
have  fitted  up  in  the  basement.  We  might 
show  it  to  him  as  a  suggestion  for  his  Washing- 
ton house." 

The  Senator  accepted  the  invitation  with  the 
smile  of  endurance  with  which  the  average  man 
contemplates  the  inspection  of  the  house  of  an 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  329 

acquaintance;    but  to   the   surprise  of  Joyce, 
Dilke  only  hastened  his  farewells. 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  to  you,"  he  observed 
to  Henry  as  he  withdrew  his  fingers  with  diffi- 
culty from  that  youth's  clenched  arm.  "  It  is 
simply  an  impertinence  for  a  man  to  be  in  such 
robust  condition  after  a  summer  in  New  York." 

"Oh,  but  I  spent  a  week  with  Aunt  Sylvia 
at '  Old  Field,'  and  a  week  in  her  courts  is  better 
than  a  thousand — much  better!" 

Madame  du  Pont  smiled  approval.  "You 
found  it  a  little  dull  ? "  she  questioned  encourag- 
ingly. Emilie  du  Pont  was  an  adept  in  the  art 
of  inducing  others  to  say  things  which  she 
wished  said. 

Joyce  frowned,  but  her  brother  declined  to 
be  suppressed.  "  Dull! "  he  exclaimed.  "  It  was 
deadly.  The  flowers  were  asleep  in  their  beds. 
The  coachman  nodded  on  his  box,  the  horses 
jogged  along  with  their  eyes  shut.  When  we 
drove,  every  butcher's  wagon  passed  us  on  the 
road;  but  Aunt  Sylvia  did  not  care.  She  said 
the  speed  of  other  vehicles  was  a  matter  of 
indifference  to  her;  that  she  was  out  to  enjoy 
the  delightful  air. 

"Ridicule,"  Joyce  exclaimed,  indignantly,  "is 
a  poor  return  for  hospitality.     After  a  visit " 

"This  was  not  a  visit;  it  was  a  course  of 
lectures." 


330         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Dilke,  seeing  that  Joyce  was  really  disturbed 
by  Henry's  ill-timed  pleasantry,  sought  to  end 
the  situation  by  taking  his  leave. 

"Good  afternoon,  Madame  du  Pont,"  he 
began,  paused  an  instant,  and  said,  turning  to 
Joyce:  "Could  you  give  me  half  an  hour 
to-morrow  morning?  I  want  to  speak  to  you 
about  your  father — and  other  matters " 

In  spite  of  himself,  a  note  of  earnestness 
crept  into  Dilke's  voice  and  alarmed  Joyce. 

"You  don't  think  my  father  ill?  Please  tell 
me  the  exact  truth.     He  is  not  seriously  ill? " 

Scarcely  a  day  goes  by  in  a  doctor's  life  that 
he  is  not  greeted  by  some  such  question,  asking 
for  the  truth  in  one  breath  and  pleading  to 
have  it  tempered  to  the  anxious  heart  in  the 
next. 

Dilke  instantly  reproached  himself  for  the 
imnecessary  pang  which  he  had  inflicted.  "  No, 
indeed!"  he  said  hastily;   "I  did  not  mean  to 

alarm  you "     Then,  catching  Madame  du 

Pont's  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with  an  expression 
hard  to  read,  an  expression  which  he  had  never 
seen  in  them  before,  he  bowed  and  withdrew 
in  some  confusion. 

The  Senator  followed  him  several  paces  toward 
the  door. 

"Have  you  spoken  to  Brandyce?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  I  am  on  my  way  to  see  him  now.     You 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  331 

have  nothing  to  add  to  what  you  told  me  this 
morning?" 

"Nothing.  But  I  should  be  glad  to  hear 
from  him  as  early  as  possible,  and  I  shall  hope 
for  a  favourable  reply." 

"You  certainly  offer  a  great  deal,"  Dilke 
answered,  "and  I  will  ask  Brandyce  to  answer 
promptly." 

The  Senator  smiled. 

"I  see,"  he  said,  "that  you  do  not  mean  to 
set  out  the  situation  in  glowing  colours,  and 
you  think  Brandyce  will  have  scruples — will 
decline.  Now  I  would  like  to  lay  you  a  wager 
that  he  will  accept." 

"  I  think  myself  that  he  will,"  Dilke  answered 
as  he  took  his  leave. 

The  Senator  turned  back  into  the  drawing 
room.  Henry  ran  whistling  up  the  stairs,  and 
Joyce  was  moving  to  follow  him  when  her 
cousin  gripped  her  wrist  with  a  fierce  energy. 
"Don't  go!"  Madame  du  Pont  whispered  in  so 
urgent  a  tone  that  Joyce  sank  into  an  easy 
chair  and  looked  at  her  cousin  in  bewilderment. 
There  was  a  note  in  Emilie's  voice  which  she 
had  never  heard  tiU  now,  a  note  of  entreaty  and 
appeal. 

Joyce  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  The  lightness 
of  manner  was  all  gone.  This  was  a  real  woman 
with  a  real  woman's  emotions  speaking  in  these 


332         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

hurried  accents,  as  Madame  du  Pont  played 
nervously  with  the  rings  on  her  left  hand. 

The  Senator  was  walking  slowly  up  and  down 
the  room.  Both  women  fixed  their  eyes  upon 
him.  Joyce  wondered  what  it  was  which  dif- 
ferentiated him  so  completely  from  Doctor 
Dilke.  The  surface  was  not  so  different;  but 
something  in  Secor's  manner  suggested  a  veneer 
applied  over  a  coarse  grain.  One  who  wished 
to  like  him  would  hesitate  to  probe  deep. 

"A  curious  man,  that  Dilke!"  the  Senator 
said,  winding  his  watch  chain  round  his  finger, 
as  he  stood  in  front  of  Madame  du  Pont.  "I 
don't  think  he  has  chosen  his  profession  well. 
He  will  never  succeed  with  women,  and  naturally 
most  of  his  work  will  lie  with  them." 

"He  is  certainly  not  a  ladies'  man,"  Joyce 
commented. 

"No,"  Secor  answered.  "He  is  too  blunt, 
too  uncompromising,  to  get  on  with  men,  and 
much  more  with  women,  and  yet  I  shoiild  not 
be  surprised  to  see  some  woman  fall  desperately 
in  love  with  him." 

Madame  du  Pont  narrowed  her  eyes  to  a 
green  thread  as  she  shot  a  glance  at  Joyce,  who 
was  tying  her  wisp  of  filmy  handkerchief  into 
a  series  of  hard  knots  and  bending  her  head 
above  it  till  her  face  scarcely  showed. 

"I  should  be  sorry  for  any  woman  who  fell 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  333 

in  love  with  Doctor  Dilke,"  Madame  du  Pont 
said  with  dry  Hps.  "  In  my  opinion  he  is  not 
a  man  to  give  away  his  heart  or  to  have  it 
worth  taking  if  he  did.  His  real  interest  and 
absorption  will  always  be  in  his  work.  His 
wife  would  always  be  second  in  his  thoughts." 

"I  do  not  agree  with  you,  Emilie,"  Joyce 
said,  throwing  her  head  back  suddenly  and 
facing  her  cousin  with  wide,  courageous  eyes. 
"  I  think  Doctor  Dilke  is  capable  of  falling  in 
love  royally,  flinging  his  heart  at  a  woman's 
feet  without  calculation  or  any  thought  of  him- 
self at  all,  and  of  going  on  loving  to  the  end 
whether  she  cared  or  not.     There  is  Papa!" 

Joyce  rose  as  her  father's  footstep  was  heard 
in  the  hall,  and  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving 
Secor  and  Madame  du  Pont  together. 

There  is  nothing  more  embarrassing  for  people 
who  are  not  in  love  than  to  be  left  in  a  position 
where  they  are  expected  to  behave  as  lovers. 
There  was  no  misunderstanding  between  Mad- 
ame du  Pont  and  the  Senator.  They  both 
accepted  frankly  the  fact  that  their  marriage 
was  one  of  convenience,  of  ambition  on  her 
part,  on  his  of  the  choice  of  a  wife  likely  to 
help  him  forward.  Both  believed  that  matters 
wotild  arrange  themselves  naturally  after  mar- 
riage; but  these  preliminary  days  of  courtship 
were  not  without  their  awkwardness,  which  not 


334         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

even  Madame  du  Font's  diplomacy  could  wholly 
ease.  They  felt  it  peculiarly  now  that  they 
were  alone  together. 

The  Senator  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  for  a  moment.  Then  he  said:  "It 
strikes  me  that  your  cousin  spoke  with  more 
heat  than  the  occasion  warranted.  Is  she  by 
any  chance  a  little  touched  in  that  direction?" 

"Really,  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  Madame 
du  Pont  answered.  "  Joyce  has  never  favoured 
me  with  any  confidences."  When  she  had 
spoken  so  far  a  sudden  angry  colour  rose  in 
her  cheeks,  and  she  added  unsteadily:  "As 
for  Doctor  Dilke,  I  wish  you  would  never  men- 
tion his  name  to  me  again — I — /  hate  him! " 

Meanwhile  Dilke,  all  unconscious  of  the  dis- 
cussion going  on  in  the  Eldridge  drawing  room, 
was  pondering  on  Secor's  last  words  and  on  his 
own  answer. 

"  I  think  he  will  take  it.  Yes,  Brandyce  will 
jump  at  the  offer,  no  doubt.  But  what  will 
the  end  be?" 

Strongly  stimulated  by  the  keen  October  air, 
he  walked  briskly  along  the  northern  side  of 
the  square,  his  blood  tingling  in  his  veins  with 
the  mere  physical  intensity  of  existence.  He 
was  cheered  by  the  gaiety  of  the  park  filled 
with  a  diverse  crowd  of  humanity.  Loungers 
were  reading  their  daily  papers  on  the  benches, 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  335 

children  wheeled  to  and  fro  on  roller  skates, 
and  in  the  background,  against  the  deep  blue 
of  the  sky,  rose  the  marble  arch  which  stands 
Hke  a  connecting  link  between  the  world  of 
business  and  the  world  of  fashion. 

At  the  comer  he  turned  into  Fifth  Avenue 
and  walked  on  still  more  briskly  till  he  reached 
a  hotel  much  frequented  by  foreigners,  a  hotel 
where  he  himself  had  often  stopped,  and  where, 
as  he  knew.  Brandy ce  made  his  headquarters 
when  in  the  city. 

He  was  full  of  a  vague  expectant  eagerness 
not  unmixed  with  embarrassment.  The  look  in 
Brandyce's  eyes  as  he  had  passed  him  in  the 
companionway  of  the  ship  was  still  vivid  in 
his  memory.  What  if  the  same  look  met  him 
now!  What  if  Brandyce  turned  upon  him  with 
scorn  and  refused  to  accept  a  favour  at  his 
hands!  He  felt  that  he  could  not  blame  him. 
Brandyce  would  be  justified  in  regarding  him 
as  that  worst  of  enemies,  a  friend  who  has 
failed  in  the  crucial  test  of  friendship. 

If  he  had  robbed  this  man  of  his  chance  of 
winning  the  woman  whom  he  loved,  what  a 
paltry  exchange  must  seem  this  offer  which  he 
was  bearing  to  him!  No  savage  was  ever 
treated  worse  in  bartering  a  lump  of  gold  for 
a  string  of  beads.  The  more  Dilke  reflected 
on  the  matter  the  more  his  courage  sank.     He 


336         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

half  wished  that  Brandyce  might  have  left 
town.  Then  he  could  write,  and  it  is  always 
easier  to  handle  a  difficult  situation  in  writing — 
at  least  then  there  is  no  perturbing  glance  of 
contempt,  no  interpolated  sarcasm,  to  cause  a 
stammering  apology.  Yes,  on  the  whole  he 
distinctly  hoped  that  Brandyce  had  gone.  And 
yet  in  that  case  he  would  miss  the  reconcilia- 
tion to  which  he  had  looked  forward,  the  self- 
justification  to  which  he  had  aspired.  He 
would  be  merely  Senator  Secor's  amanuensis 
transmitting  a  business  communication.  In 
this  mixed  state  of  mind  Dilke  arrived  at  the 
hotel.  As  he  entered  the  office,  the  hotel 
clerk,  who  knew  him,  looked  up  and  nodded. 
Then  he  said  suddenly:  "Oh,  Doctor  Dilke,  a 
man  in  room  131  has  sent  down  to  ask  for  a 
physician,  and  we  were  just  going  to  send  out 
for  one.  They  say  he  seems  very  ill,  and  we're 
anxious  to  lose  no  time.  Perhaps  you  can  see 
him." 

Dilke  hesitated.  "Yes,"  he  answered,  after 
a  moment,  "I  will  take  a  look  at  him,  though 
I  am  in  rather  a  hurry.     What's  his  name?" 

The  clerk  looked  at  the  hotel  register  to 
refresh  his  memory.  "Eustace  Brandyce,"  he 
said;  "registers  from  London." 

"Eustace  Brandyce!" 

"Do  you  know  him?" 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  337 

"I  crossed  on  the  steamer  with  him.  In 
fact,  I  had  called  to  see  him  this  afternoon. 
Where  is  his  room?  " 

"Here,"  said  the  clerk,  calling  to  a  bellboy, 
"show  this  gentleman  to  room  131." 

As  Dilke  made  his  way  to  Brandyce's  room 
he  had  a  sensation  of  helplessness,  as  if  the 
hand  of  fate  were  on  his  shoulder  pushing  him 
forward.  He  had  feared  to  feel  embarrass- 
ment, but  when  the  door  opened  and  he  saw 
Brandyce  lying  there  on  his  bed,  he  was  con- 
scious that  the  issues  were  too  large,  the  crisis 
too  momentous,  for  any  small  emotions. 

"Ah,  Brandyce,  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  like 
this,"  he  said,  going  close  to  the  bed. 

The  sick  man  raised  himself. 

"They  sent  for  you!"  Brandyce  exclaimed, 
with  something  like  irony  in  his  tone. 

"No.  They  did  not  send  for  me.  I  hap- 
pened to  drop  in  as  they  were  arranging  to 
summon  someone.  You  can  have  somebody 
else  now;  but  they  spoke  of  haste,  and  I  thought 
I  would  come  as  a  stop-gap. 

"Kismet!"  exclaimed  Brandyce,  with  an 
'attempt  at  a  laugh  which  set  him  coughing. 

"Stop  talking,  please,  and  lie  down.  There 
^—that's  right.     Now,  let  me  feel  your  pulse." 

Brandyce  obeyed  as  to  lying  down;  but  he 
went  on  speaking,  still  with  irony  in  his  eyes. 


338         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"You  think  you're  going  to  save  my  life, 
don't  you,  to  make  things  quits?  Well,  you're 
not.  I  took  precious  good  care  not  to  send  for 
a  doctor  in  time,  because  there  was  always  a 
chance  that  he  might  do  the  trick.  I  dare  say 
it  would  have  been  safe  enough,  but  they  do 
blimder  on  a  cure  now  and  then,  and  I  did  not 
choose  to  risk  it.  Now  if  you  can  give  me 
something  to  stop  the  pain,  I'll  thank  you." 

Dilke  made  no  answer  in  words.  He  was 
counting  the  pulse,  and  saying  to  himself,  as 
the  passing  stranger  said  of  Keats,  "There's 
death  in  that  hand." 

"A  neglected  cold,  I  suppose,"  he  com- 
mented aloud. 

Brandyce  nodded. 

"How  long  have  you  had  it?" 

"Oh,  for  some  time,  ever  since  I  landed,  in 
fact." 

"How  long  have  you  had  fever?" 

"For  several  days." 

"And  you  have  done  nothing — ^taken  no 
medicine?" 

Brandyce  shook  his  head.  Then  he  put  his 
hand  to  his  side  and  winced  as  if  the  pain  were 
intolerable.     Still  he  would  persist  in  talking. 

"  I  am  off  my  head  sometimes,"  he  said.  "  If 
I  say  things,  remember  they  do  not  mean  any- 
thing." 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  339 

"They  rarely  do,"  Dilke  answered.  "When 
people  are  delirious  they  babble  like  Falstaff. 
Let  me  listen  to  your  lungs,  please." 

"Bad — isn't  it!"  exclaimed  Brandyce  hope- 
fully. 

"  Very  bad,"  responded  Dilke  gravely.  "  Now 
I  tell  you,  Brandyce.  If  I  take  your  case  I 
am  going  to  do  all  I  possibly  can  to  cure  you, 
and  you  must  help  me,  or  I  will  send  another 
physician.  As  for  sitting  by  and  seeing  you 
commit  suicide  while  I  sign  the  certificate — I 
will  not  do  it.  You  may  not  care  for  life.  I 
am  sure  that  I  do  not.  But,  if  I  go  into  the 
case,  I  shall  go  in  to  win  if  I  can." 

Brandyce  smiled  with  a  trace  of  his  old 
gayety. 

"Go  in,  then,"  he  said;  "that  is,  if  it  will 
amuse  you  to  try." 

"And  you  will  take  the  medicines  and  do 
as  I  say." 

"  It  will  make  no  difference.  Yes — I  will 
do  as  you  say." 

"Good!  The  first  prescription  is  that  you 
speak  only  when  absolutely  necessary  and  then 
in  a  whisper.  The  second  order  is  that  you 
pull  the  coverlet  over  your  chest  and  lie  still 
till  I  come  back.  I  shall  be  gone  about  five 
minutes." 

Qnce  outside  Brandyce's  room,  Dilke  dashed 


340         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

into  the  office,  ordered  a  nurse  from  the  nurses' 
registry,  ran  to  the  nearest  drug  store  for  brandy, 
drugs  and  appliances  which  he  needed,  and  then, 
breathless,  re-entered  the  sick  room,  prepared  for 
a  hand-to-hand  fight  with  death. 

"Double  pneumonia — very  alarming  case," 
had  been  his  diagnosis  to  the  clerk,  and  he  saw 
no  reason  to  change  it  as  he  stood  looking  down 
at  Brandy ce,  who  had  fallen  asleep  in  his  ab- 
sence. The  livid  lips,  the  dusky  flush  on  the 
cheek,  the  laboured  shallow  breathing,  told  a 
discouraging  story;  but  Dilke  would  not  listen 
to  the  whisper  of  discouragement.  He  felt  as 
if  destiny  had  thrown  in  his  way  one  last  chance 
to  regain  his  self-respect.  Brandyce  had  stated 
the  case  with  cynical  frankness.  If  he  could 
save  this  man's  life  they  would  be  quits. 

While  these  thoughts  were  seething  in  his 
mind  his  hands  were  busy  cracking  ice  and 
preparing  medicine.  As  he  attempted  to  admin- 
ister the  dose  Brandyce  roused,  but  not  to 
consciousness.  Delirium  had  set  in.  He  talked 
hurriedly  and  with  gasping  breath,  now  of  a 
children's  party,  now  of  the  army,  now  of  work 
for  his  paper.  He  seemed  oppressed  with  the 
feeling  that  he  must  prepare  "copy,"  and  Dilke 
had  all  that  he  could  do  to  hold  him  down. 

He  quieted  after  a  little;  but  still  went 
on  talking,  softly  now  as  if  he  were  speaking 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  341 

to  a  woman.  His  words  were  scarcely  audible, 
but  the  note  of  pleading  was  distinctly  per- 
ceptible. 

Dilke  felt  as  if  there  were  a  kind  of  indelicacy 
in  listening,  and  almost  feared  to  catch  a  mean- 
ing which  he  could  not  misunderstand. 

He  turned  hastily  and  walked  to  the  window, 
which  looked  out  upon  a  court.  Blank  walls 
and  drawn  shades  met  his  gaze,  but  he  did  not 
see  them.  That  face  on  the  pillow  filled  his 
imagination  and  left  no  room  for  physical 
vision.  The  pale,  aristocratic  profile,  the  sen- 
sitive, smiling  mouth  seemed  clothed  with  a 
new  and  spiritual  beauty.  "Surely,  surely," 
Dilke  argued  with  himself,  "such  a  face  must 
be  the  index  of  a  sensitive  sovl  within,  a  nature 
with  immense  latent  possibilities  of  good,  gone 
astray  by  some  strange  freak  of  education  or 
inheritance — some  black  drop  of  poison  in  the 
blood  bequeathed  by  a  recreant  ancestor.  Oh, 
why  must  we  be  such  slaves  to  the  past,  and 
how  unequally  the  spiritual  inheritance  of  the 
ages  is  divided!  Two  heirs  to  the  same  blood, 
and  behold  the  difference  in  result,  in  the  part- 
ing  of  the  ways. 

"From  the  same  cradle's  side, 
From  the  same  mother's  knee. 
One  to  long  darkness  and  the  frozen  tide» 
One  to  the  peaceful  sea!" 


342         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Dilke  sighed  heavily  and  moved  back  to  his 
old  station  by  the  bedside. 

Thankful  enough  he  was  when  the  nurse 
appeared  to  re-enforce  him.  He  had  given  up 
all  thoughts  of  going  home.  The  symptoms 
pointed  to  a  crisis  at  hand  in  the  night  or  the 
early  morning.  He  must  stay.  As  he  sat  by 
the  bedside  in  the  softened  light  of  the  night 
lamp,  Dilke  wondered  to  think  that  only  a 
few  hours  ago  he  had  been  drinking  tea  and 
chattering  of  nothings.  No  contrasts  which  our 
imaginations  conjure  up  exceed  those  which 
occur  in  real  life  in  our  own  lives  and  leave  us 
bewildered  as  to  which  is  real  and  which  unreal. 

In  such  seasons  as  this  we  are  compelled  to 
meet  ourselves  face  to  face,  and  the  encounter 
is  often  disagreeable  to  both  parties.  Dilke 
knew  that  he  was  fighting  for  Brandyce's  life 
from  no  altruistic  purpose;  but  partly  from 
the  acquired  professional  zeal  which  rises  most 
alert  and  most  resolute  before  a  desperate  case, 
partly  from  a  desire  to  atone  for  the  past,  to 
feel  that,  having  discharged  his  debt,  whatever 
he  might  have  said,  or  might  see  fit  to  say  in 
the  future,  was  his  own  affair. 

His  thoughts  drifted  to  Joyce,  and  he  won- 
dered if  he  were  bringing  Brandyce  back  to 
life  for  her.  If  this  were  so,  it  was  perhaps 
but  a  doubtful  kindness  that  he  was  doing  her, 


PORT  AFTER  STORMY  SEAS  343 

yet  this  had  not  been  given  him  to  decide.  He 
was  there  only  to  struggle  to  the  end. 

In  the  nature  of  things  death  cannot  affect 
the  physician  with  the  same  sense  of  shock  with 
which  it  strikes  the  rest  of  the  world.  It  is  too 
familiar  to  his  experience.  But  there  is  per- 
haps a  deeper  solemnity  in  it  to  "an  eye  which 
has  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality." 

Then,  too,  disease  has  a  certain  terrible 
beauty  in  his  eyes.  He  sees  it  as  an  enemy  of 
mankind,  yet  no  longer  as  a  strange  wild  beast 
leaping  out  of  the  undiscovered  dark  upon  its 
victim;  but  rather  as  a  foe  marshalled  under 
tmalterable  law  and  marching  with  ruthless 
rhythmic  motions,  a  foe  which  may  be  com- 
bated with  weapons  which  science  has  put  into 
the  hands  of  man  and  which  there  is  a  pro- 
fotmd  satisfaction  in  wielding  to  the  extent  of 
one's  ability,  even  if  the  fight  at  last 
prove  hopeless  and  the  victory  lie  with  the 
enemy. 

A  little  before  dawn,  as  the  nurse  was  pre- 
paring the  milk  and  brandy,  Brandy ce  opened 
his  eyes  bright  with  delirium. 

Dilke  moved.  The  sick  man  sat  up  in  bed 
before  the  doctor  could  prevent  him. 

"I  call  your  bluff!"  he  cried,  throwing  out 
his  hand  with  a  triumphant  smile,  and  fell 
back — dead. 


344         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

"There  was  no  hope  from  the  first,"  the 
nurse  said. 

Dilke  shook  his  head  gloomily.  "No  hope 
from  the  first,"  he  assented,  echoing  her  words. 

He  realised  now,  however,  by  the  keenness 
of  his  disappointment  that  there  had  been  hope 
in  his  own  mind  and  that  he  had  scored  another 
failure,  to  embitter  his  life.  It  is  seldom  that 
men  are  permitted  to  check  off  their  account 
with  destiny  as  if  it  were  a  bank. 

The  nurse  pulled  up  the  shade  at  the  window. 
The  morning  light  fell  greyly  on  the  dead  face. 
Dilke  stepped  close  to  the  bed  and  took  Bran- 
dy ce's  cold  hand  in  his. 

"Gk)od  bye,"  he  murmured.  "And  wherever 
you  are,  let  there  be  peace  between  us!" 

As  he  turned  away,  there  shot  across  his 
mind  the  words  spoken  by  Napoleon's  physician 
in  closing  the  eyes  of  the  great  dead:  "  Ainsi 
passe  la  gloire.*'  **  If  glory,"  thought  Dilke, 
"  why  not  shame? " 


CHAPTER  XIX 
After  All 

When  Dilke  had  superintended  the  final 
arrangements,  always  painful  in  their  brutal 
practicality,  following  so  soon  on  the  footsteps 
of  majestic  Death,  he  went  out  into  the 
avenue.  The  street  was  full  of  early  morning 
bustle.  Heavy  trucks  lumbered  along  on  their 
way  up  town,  automobiles  whirled  by,  shop 
girls  crossed  hastily  from  the  side  streets 
toward  their  business  on  Broadway,  newsboys 
were  running  up  and  down  steps  dropping 
papers  at  the  doors  of  the  houses. 

The  last  sight  brought  sharply  back  to  DUke's 
mind  one  morning  a  little  less  than  a  year  ago, 
when  he  had  been  walking  the  streets  as  now, 
and  he  remembered  how  eagerly  and  fearfully  he 
had  snatched  the  morning  paper. 

A  year  ago — was  it  only  so  long?  It  seemed 
now  as  if  he  were  looking  back  at  it  across 
infinite  ages.  Why,  his  whole  life  had  happened 
since  then! — and  yet  he  could  place  no  event. 
He  no  longer  reckoned  from  dates  in  the  calen- 
dar, but  from  the  day  on  which  he  first  met 

345 


346         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

Joyce  Eldridge,  the  occasion  of  his  first  en- 
counter with  Brandy ce. 

His  watch  by  the  sick  bed  had  been  a  season 
of  inward  purification  for  Dilke.  His  ministry 
to  the  dying  man  had  swept  away  every  feeHng 
toward  him  but  that  of  pity.  He  no  longer 
hated  or  condemned.  He  was  bowed  beneath 
a  new  humihty  and  the  tenderness  of  an  tm- 
availing  sympathy. 

It  is  rarely  possible  to  keep  in  the  morning 
the  mystic  heights  which  we  gain  in  the  night. 
The  Sancho  Panza  within  us  rises  to  nudge  the 
elbow  of  Quixote,  bidding  him  leave  his  dream- 
ing and  wake  to  the  practical  issues  of  the 
day.  So  it  was  with  Dilke.  He  must  bathe 
and  change  to  his  morning  dress,  visit  his 
office,  inquire  into  the  condition  of  his  patients, 
write  prescriptions,  open  his  mail,  answer  his  let- 
ters, all  as  if  he  had  gone  through  no  great  experi- 
ence, as  if  no  further  ordeal  still  lay  awaiting  him. 

When  he  had  done  these  things  he  started 
to  retrace  his  steps  down  the  avenue,  and  as 
he  did  so  his  thoughts  turned  to  the  other  night's 
dinner.  He  recalled  with  stinging  acuteness 
Secor's  remarks,  and  saw  them  in  dispropor- 
tionate magnitude.  He  fancied  Secor  saying 
to  himself:  "Here  is  a  man  who  posed  as  the 
only  honest  man  in  the  board  of  library  trustees 
there  in  Pieria,  a  Cato  who  could  not  be  bribed, 


AFTER  ALL  347 

at  least  by  money  which  was  not  to  find  its 
way  into  his  private  pocket;  but  when  it  came 
to  a  question  of  earning  his  Hving  he  was  ready 
to  stoop  to  any  expedient.  What  a  hypo- 
crite!" 

It  gave  Dilke  no  comfort  to  reflect  that  Secor 
could  not  look  down  upon  his  conduct  from 
any  superior  heights.  It  was  not  this  man's 
contempt  which  Dilke  resented;  but  his  fellow- 
ship. 

Perhaps  it  was  true  that  everyone  had  his 
price.  Secor's  was  the  vulgar  bait  of  a  vtilgar 
ambition.  Madame  du  Pont  was  about  to 
marry  him  for  an  ambition  equally  vulgar  if 
expressed  in  more  subtle  terms.  Brandyce  had 
cheated  in  the  eagerness  of  play — and  he  himself 
— ^had  he  too  not  flinched  in  the  crisis  of  his 
fate!  Who  was  he  that  he  should  say  to  any 
one  of  them:   "Go  to!  I  am  holier  than  thou"? 

The  remembrance  of  the  dinner  had  turned  to 
gall  and  wormwood.  It  is  the  small  things 
which  make  us  most  unhappy,  perhaps  because 
they  are  so  trivial  that  we  are  not  braced  against 
them.  We  nerve  ourselves  to  meet  the  surgeon's 
knife ;  but  the  pin-prick  finds  us  unprepared  and 
therefore  the  readier  to  cry  out. 

With  the  thought  of  the  dinner,  the  image 
of  Joyce  Eldridge  rose  full  and  vivid  on 
his  inward  eye — Joyce  flushed  and  vivacious, 


348         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

in  gayer  mood  than  he  had  ever  seen  her 
before,  yet  with  a  shade  too  deep  a  colour  in  her 
cheek,  a  brightness  in  her  glance  which  sug- 
gested that  the  gayety  was  not  wholly  natural 
but  the  result  of  some  nervous  tension  resolutely 
held  in  check,  perhaps  of  some  profound  sad- 
ness, thrust  back  into  her  heart  and  covered  by 
this  surface  buoyancy. 

All  through  the  night  of  his  watch  beside 
Brandy ce's  death  bed  this  vision  of  Joyce  had 
been  present  with  him.  While  every  thought 
seemed  fixed  upon  the  dying  man,  every  energy 
bent  toward  devices  for  possible  aid  to  him, 
there  had  been  an  underlying  consciousness  of 
the  woman  to  whom  Brandy  ce's  life  or  death 
might  be  of  such  overwhelming  importance. 
When  the.  issue  was  decided,  when  Death  had 
spoken  its  final  "Never!  Never!"  still  his 
thoughts  turned  insistently  toward  Joyce.  AH 
the  time,  as  he  was  moving  about  and  making  a 
final  clearing  of  the  room  before  summoning  the 
clerk  of  the  hotel,  his  thoughts  were  busy  with 
Joyce  Eldridge. 

What  would  she  say  when  she  saw  the  death 
notice  in  the  papers?  Would  it  quite  break  her 
heart? 

The  more  Dilke  thought  over  the  matter  the 
clearer  one  thing  became  in  his  mind.  He  must 
go  to  her,  must  see  her  before  her  eyes  were  met 


AFTER  ALL  349 

by  the  cold  print  of  the  public  notice,  and  break 
the  news  to  her  as  well  as  he  could.  It  was  this 
intention  which  had  driven  him  through  his 
morning  tasks  with  such  feverish  energy.  He 
had  been  awake  and  at  work  since  dawn,  and  it 
was  only  half  past  ten  when  he  retraced  his  steps 
to  the  Eldridges'  door.  He  half  feared,  half 
hoped  that  Joyce  might  have  gone  out;  but  it 
was  not  so. 

As  he  sat  waiting  for  her  in  the  drawing  room 
he  tried  fifty  ways  of  stating  his  message.  One 
seemed  flippant,  another  brutal,  a  third  cruel. 
Should  he  plunge  into  it  at  once  or  try  to  lead 
up  to  it?  Would  it  not  after  all  have  been 
better  to  write? 

Joyce's  entrance  put  an  end  to  all  question- 
ings, and  she  herself  gave  him  his  opening. 

"  How  ill  you  are  looking — as  if  you  had  not 
slept  at  all!" 

"  I  have  not  slept.  I  have  been  up  all  night 
with  a  very  sick  man." 

"The  one  of  whom  you  spoke  last  evening?" 

"  No,  another — one  for  whom  I  felt  far  more 
deeply  because  I  knew  him.  You  knew  him 
too." 

Joyce  paled. 

"  I  knew  him? "  she  repeated. 

"Yes,  it  was  Captain  Brandyce." 

"Captain  Brandyce?" 


350         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

It  seemed  as  if  all  that  Joyce  could  do  was  to 
echo  Dilke's  words.  The  man  before  her  decided 
that  it  would  be  kindest  to  let  the  blow  fall  at 
once. 

"I  found  him  very  low  with  pneumonia,"  he 
said.  "We  tried  everything  we  knew  to  save 
him,  but  it  was  too  late." 

"  You  think  that  he  is  going  to  die? '* 

"He  is  dead." 

Joyce  sank  slowly  into  a  chair  behind  her. 
The  great  tears  welled  into  her  eyes. 

"Terrible!"  she  exclaimed. 

"I — I  knew  that  you  would  feel  it  so,"  said 
Dilke,  turning  away  as  if  there  were  indelicacy 
in  peering  into  her  trouble.  "That  is  why  I 
came  to  tell  you  instead  of  leaving  you  to  read  it 
in  the  papers,  and  I  thought  that  perhaps  you 
covld  give  me  the  address  of  Brandyce's  relatives 
here,  the  ones  at  whose  house  you  met  him  first." 

Joyce  pondered,  her  finger  on  her  lip.  "  I  am 
afraid,"  she  said,  "that  they  have  sailed  for 
Europe.  I  met  his  cousin  last  week  and  she 
spoke  of  their  going  on  Saturday." 

"Then  we  must  arrange  to  notify  them,  and 
meanwhile  we  must  hold  some  sort  of  ser- 
vice  " 

"You  must  have  him  brought  here  now — at 
once,"  Joyce  exclaimed.  "  I  am  sure  that  Papa 
will  wish  it.     Oh,  I  hope — I  hope  that  you  are 


AFTER  ALL  351 

telling  me  the  truth.     He  did  die  of  pneiunonia 
— and  not — not  by  his  own  hand?" 

The  girl  paled  and  shuddered  as  she  spoke. 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  said  DiUce  gravely, 
"that  I  am  telHng  you  the  exact  truth.  That 
is  what  I  came  here  to  do." 

Joyce  rose  and  stood  with  her  back  to  the 
table,  gripping  its  edge  with  both  hands  for  sup- 
port. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  sorry!"  she  exclaimed.  "And 
yet  so  glad  that  it  came  as  it  did! " 

Only  one  sentence — and  yet  it  carried  con- 
viction to  Dilke's  soul  and  changed  the  world 
for  him.  It  was  sympathy  and  not  love  which 
spoke  in  this  low  tone.  The  relief  was  almost 
too  great.  Dilke  felt  his  own  voice  tremble  as 
he  put  the  next  question: 

"  Then  it  will  not  break  your  heart?  " 

"No,"  Joyce  answered,  raising  her  eyes  full 
to  meet  his.  "  It  will  not  break  my  heart.  Did 
you  think  that  it  would?" 

"  I  felt  sure  of  it,"  said  Dilke. 

Joyce  swayed  a  little  unsteadily,  but  she  made 
no  reply.  Dilke  stood  looking  at  her  with  every 
sense  on  the  alert,  noting  the  pale  blue  of  her 
gown,  the  little  slippers  peeping  out  underneath 
its  ruffles.  He  longed  to  fall  down  and  kiss  them, 
and  all  the  while  he  was  saying  over  and  over  to 
himself  like  an  idiot  who  knows  only  one  sen- 


352         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

tence  in  the  world:  "  She  does  not  care  for  him. 
She  does  not  care — she  does  not  care." 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  he  said  at  last  aloud: 
"Perhaps  I  ought  not  to  ask  you  this;  but  I 
have  been  carrying  a  burden  which  has  become 
intolerable.  Tell  me  honestly.  Did  your  father 
repeat  to  you  my  conversation  with  him?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Joyce,  drooping  her  head  till  Dilke 
could  no  longer  read  her  eyes.  "He  told  me 
what  you  had  said." 

"Did  that  have  anything  to  do — ^was  that 
why  you  ceased  to  care  for  Brandyce?"  Joyce 
was  conscious  of  a  peculiar  vibration  in  Dilke's 
voice,  such  as  she  had  heard  only  once  before 
when  they  talked  of  love  in  the  twilight  on  the 
Lake  of  Geneva.  She  gripped  the  table  still 
harder.  Whatever  happened,  she  was  deter- 
mined to  show  no  weakness  now.  Yet  she  had 
difficulty  in  forcing  her  lips  to  speech.  She 
wished  that  Dilke  would  not  look  at  her  as  she 
could  feel  him  doing,  now,  although  her  eyes 
were  cast  down.  She  wished — she  did  not  know 
what — but  speak  she  must. 

"  I  refused  Captain  Brandyce  the  morning 
before  your  talk  with  my  father." 

"Then  that  had  nothing  to  do  with  your 
refusal?" 

"Nothing." 

"Thank  heaven  for  that!"  Dilke  paused  a 


AFTER  ALL  353 

moment  after  he  had  said  it,  and  then  went  on. 
"One  more  question " 

"  I  may  not  choose  to  answer  it." 

"  There  is  no  compulsion ;  but  I  think  that  out 
of  kindness  you  will.  Did  you  think  it  dis- 
honourable in  me  to  speak?" 

"If  there  was  anything  dishonourable  it  was 
not  that.  You  owed  candour  even  to  a  stranger 
in  such  a  matter,  and  I  had  thought — had  fan- 
cied that  you  did  not  regard  me  quite  as  a 
stranger — I  remember  indeed  one  morning  in 
the  reading  room  of  the  hotel  there  in  Paris 
when  you  asked  to  be  my  friend,  when  you 
promised  me  the  truth,  the  strict  truth,  as  the 
basis  of  that  friendship." 

Joyce's  voice  grew  indignant  as  she  went  on: 
"  Did  your  conscience  never  suggest  to  you  that 
you  were  breaking  that  compact  in  keeping 
silence  in  an  affair  which  you  believed  of  vital 
consequence  to  me?  Were  you  so  absorbed  in 
the  thought  of  what  you  owed  to  Captain  Bran- 
dyce  that  you  had  never  a  misgiving  as  to  what 
you  owed  to  your  friend?  Of  course,  however, 
when  you  spoke  of  being  my  friend  you  meant 
nothing  by  it.  It  was  only  an  empty  phrase, 
and  when  other  deeper  feelings  came,  and  your 
interests  were  absorbed — ^but  I  will  not  go  on — 
I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  you — forgive  me! " 

The  colour  burned  in  Dilke's  face.     "  Forgive 


364         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

you?"  he  exclaimed.  "I  confess  that  I  find  it 
hard  to  forgive  you  for  making  such  a  mistake, 
for  misjudging  me  Hke  that.  I  can  pardon  all 
that  you  say  of  my  silence.  God  knows  I  said 
it  over  to  myself  often  enough,  and  called  myself 
harder  names  than  any  that  you  could  invent, 
yet  speak  I  could  not.  I  knew  nothing  till  that 
last  night  on  the  ship.  I  only  suspected.  And 
I  thought  that  you  cared — I  was  sure  that  you 
cared  for  Brandyce.  He  had  saved  my  life. 
There  was  nothing  open  to  me  but  silence  and 
withdrawal.  It  seemed  to  me  then  the  only 
honourable  course.  My  vision  might  have  been 
clearer,  my  action  wiser  if  I  had  not  feared  all 
the  time  to  be  blinded  and  prejudiced  by  my 
own  love  for  you " 

Joyce  groped  a  little  with  her  hands  before 
her  face,  as  if  she  were  clearing  away  a  fog.  "  By 
your  love  for  me! "  she  repeated.  "  Oh,  no!  no! 
You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  Remem- 
ber, we  pledged  ourselves  to  speak  truth  to  each 
other!" 

Dilke  made  a  stride  toward  her,  but  stopped 
with  his  arms  folded  across  the  back  of  a  chair  at 
a  little  distance.  He  was  breathing  hard  and 
spoke  with  difficulty. 

"Listen,  Joyce,"  he  said.  "You  and  I  have 
played  at  cross-purposes  long  enough.  You 
thoiaght  that  I  was  in  love  with  Madame  du  Pont  ?'  * 


AFTER  ALL  355 

"You  were,  you  know " 

"  Pardon  me — I  do  not  claim  to  be  a  very  wise 
man.  I  may,  as  Mrs.  Fenwick  says,  have  very 
little  grip  on  real  life ;  but  I  think  I  have  intelli- 
gence enough  to  know  with  what  woman  I  am 
in  love.  There  has  never  been  any  other.  She 
was  the  stranger  of  a  year  ago,  the  stranger  of 
whom  we  talked — do  you  remember? — there  in 
Paris.  But  she  has  lived  in  my  heart  till  I  know 
her  better  than  I  know  myself.  No  one  will  ever 
take  her  place.  Do  you  really  mean  that  you 
did  not  suspect  it — you,  who  see  so  much  that  is 
hidden,  did  you  see  not  that,  which  must  have 
been  written  in  my  eyes  every  time  they  turned 
toward  you?  Oh,  you  are  not  so  dull  as  that! 
Why,  everyone  knew  it — Newbold — Madame  du 
Pont " 

"Emilie!" 

"Certainly.  On  that  day  on  shipboard  in 
your  stateroom,  when  you  had  fainted  and  I  was 
talking  all  sorts  of  incredible  folly,  I  looked  up 
and  saw  her  standing  there;  she  had  heard  it 
all!" 

"Emilie!"  Joyce  repeated  again,  incredu- 
lously, and  then  added  under  her  breath:  "  Oh, 
Aunt  Sylvia,  how  right  you  were!  " 

Dilke  bowed  his  head  above  the  high  back  of 
the  carved  oak  chair  and  closed  his  eyes  as  if  to 
shut  out  the  sight  of  Joyce.     When  he  spoke 


356         CLAIMS  AND  COUNTERCLAIMS 

again,  it  was  with  the  calmness  of  a  man  who 
has  regained  a  nearly  lost  self-control  and  means 
to  hold  it. 

"I  must  not  speak  now,"  he  said.  "I  must 
not  come  nearer,  or  stretch  out  my  hand  to 
touch  yours.  I  will  not.  It  would  seem  an- 
other wrong  to  that  dead  man  lying  still  un- 
buried.  I  must  go  away,  and  do  penance  yet  a 
little  while ;  but  some  day  when  I  have  made  my 
peace  with  myself  and  with  the  memory  of 
Brandy ce,  I  shall  come  to  you  and  ask  you  to  be 
my  wife." 

Joyce  lifted  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him  for  an 
instant.  Then  she  left  the  table  and  crossed  the 
room  to  the  low,  old-fashioned  marble  mantel. 
She  folded  her  arms  upon  it,  and  bending  her 
head,  laid  her  hot  cheek  against  the  cool  marble. 
It  was  a  gesture  of  surrender  but  also  of  pride. 
It  said  as  plainly  as  words:  "If  you  have  not 
spoken,  I  have  not  answered." 

Dilke  understood  it  and  was  content.  He 
walked  backward  out  of  the  room,  holding  all 
the  time  the  figure  by  the  mantel  in  his  fixed 
gaze.  When  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  a 
new  look  was  on  his  face,  the  look  of  one  who 
has  talked  with  "  Shining  Ones." 


